


What We Are Willing To Lose

by hanwritessolo



Series: The Burden We Share [3]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Childhood Trauma, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Found Family, Gen, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 68,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22987465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: In the summer of 1998, right at the peak of their notoriety in the world of thieves, brothers Sam and Nathan Drake, together with Victor Sullivan, are hired at the behest of Victor’s old friend to retrieve a stolen million-dollar Rembrandt painting in exchange for a handsome reward. They set out to London to do the job where they are joined by Darcy Kingsley, a tenacious art history student with an unlikely talent for hacking computers who happens to be after the same masterpiece. Nate and Victor are glad to have Darcy around, except there’s one little problem: Sam and Darcy cannot stand each other.However, as their search quickly escalates to a dangerous turn and they are catapulted to far-flung places, so does the tension rise between Sam and Darcy. Forced to work together and set aside their differences, Sam soon learns that maybe, he doesn’t really quite hate Darcy. And maybe, Darcy doesn’t hate him, either. And with this job being far more complicated than they anticipated, little does Sam know that what awaits him at the end of this hunt is not just a fortune of a lifetime, but a choice that will alter his entire life.
Relationships: Nathan Drake & Samuel Drake, Nathan Drake & Samuel Drake & Victor Sullivan, Nathan Drake & Victor Sullivan, Nathan Drake/Samuel Drake, Nathan Drake/Victor Sullivan, Samuel Drake & Victor Sullivan, Samuel Drake/Original Character(s), Samuel Drake/Original Female Character(s), Samuel Drake/Victor Sullivan
Series: The Burden We Share [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1520453
Comments: 50
Kudos: 51





	1. Sam Drake

It is a bright and pleasant summer noon, and in a garden café overlooking the River Thames, Sam nurses his second can of ice-cold beer as he reads a day-old tabloid with a bold headline across its front page: _£30 Million Rembrandt Masterpiece Stolen At The National Gallery._

He flips the newspaper to the next page. There are also a bunch of other articles inside like _Ghost Strikes Again: London Stock Exchange Crashes For A Day_ and _Oxford Professor’s Murder Remains Unsolved,_ but Sam disregards these, not when the story about the art theft consumes half of the page with the picture of the stolen painting in question: _The Belshazzar’s Feast._ He skims the article to the important parts. Heist happened two weeks ago. Destroyed security footage. No solid leads to the culprits. Gallery offers twice the sum of the painting itself to whoever finds it.

One thing is for certain: whoever pulled off this heist isn’t fucking around.

With an exasperated sigh, he folds the paper, slaps it back on the table, and takes a huge gulp of his beer. In his first week in London, this might be his fortieth beer overall, but he has decided not to keep count. He has also decided that at this time of day, it is much better to fill his empty stomach with booze, because considering how both Nathan and Victor have gone elsewhere to buy coffee as they wait for Victor’s contact to arrive, he is left to ruminate the circumstances surrounding this almost impossible job to find this goddamn Rembrandt painting that brought them all here in the first place, so he might as well get himself, as the British would say, utterly hammered.

Sam drains his drink clean, crushes the can, and is already on his way to buy another when a woman drags the chair across from him and takes a seat. Save from her light chestnut hair and her sharp blue eyes, it’s like looking at a stark shadow in broad daylight: her clothes are all black, from the leather jacket, the _Nirvana_ band shirt, down to the worn-out pair of combat boots. He cannot help but wonder if she is sweltering under that choice of wardrobe given the season. He is waiting for her to greet him, to notice him—because, well, he knows her, and he knows she _knows_ him, and how can they not know each other when she was literally the first person he met when they landed at Heathrow and for god’s sake, against Sam’s wishes, Victor recruited her to be their tech expert and she’s been helping on the recon for this job—but of course, she does not say a word. She is being purposely difficult. And without even bothering to look at Sam, she only pulls out a bulky, black laptop from her olive Jansport backpack and begins typing away, fingers clacking noisily against the keyboard.

Of all the girls who had to sit at Sam’s table, it just had to be _her._

Sam clears his throat. “Well, hello there, Jane,” he says breezily. “What brings you—“

“It’s Darcy.”

“Come again?”

“I said, it’s Darcy,” she repeats. She does not look up from her laptop. “I’ve lost count on how many times I’ve corrected you over the last few days, Samuel,” says Darcy coolly, “but only my mother gets to call me that. You are not my mother.”

“Oh, right, right. Of course.” A cheeky, triumphant grin crosses his face. Somehow, he is suddenly thankful that Victor, in his attempt to be polite, had introduced Darcy to him and Nathan with her full name: Darcy Jane Kingsley. Occupation: art history student by day, computer nerd by night and, upon Sam’s closer assessment in the past few days, a full-time uptight human being. 

Frankly, Sam would never have arrived at such an assessment of her character if he had not made one fatal mistake when he met Darcy: he smiled at her. After seeing her welcome Victor with such warm fondness—which, of course, should not have been a surprise granted how Victor was an old friend of Darcy’s mother, who also happens to be the very person who hired them to do this job, someone they still haven’t met because, as they were told, she has been out of town for a lecture—Sam had assumed he and Nathan would receive at least some degree of hospitality. And so he flashed his friendliest smile, eyes crinkled in eagerness as if this job, as if this whole righteous business of finding a stolen painting and restoring it to its gallery and _not_ selling it to a private collector or even the black market for a more ludicrous sum of money was exactly the kind of noble deed Sam has been looking forward to do in his whole life. (Spoiler alert: it was not. He and his brother are fortune seekers first, thieves second—but usually just thieves.) But Darcy’s eyes—those painfully blue eyes that scanned him from head to foot—seemed to have seen the darkest parts of his soul. She looked at him like she wished he were dead in a ditch. Then she looked away. She did not smile back, and for some reason, Sam feels like Darcy has taken something of incredible importance from him, as if his smile was something she carried around like a badge of honour ever since. Maybe this is the feeling he deserves to get for all the things he has stolen in the course of his thieving life. Maybe this is karma. And if karma is a bitch, well, Darcy is certainly fitting for the part.

Sam could only wish Darcy’s mother would be far kinder.

After the poor turn of events on their first meeting, it only took a few days for Sam and Darcy to succumb to this cutthroat dance of mutual hostility. She hardly ever greets Sam without a scowl on her face. Nathan, for some reason, has already managed to get on her good side. For a little, at least. Victor told them to give Darcy some time; he explained how it also took him a while to get her to warm up to him when they first met, and that all things considered, she’s one of the nicest people he’s gotten to know in his lifetime, which is saying something coming from Victor.

Still, despite Victor’s good word on Darcy, Sam could not help pushing her buttons. And he enjoys nothing more than summoning Darcy’s annoyance by wielding her middle name like waving a _muleta_ in front of a seething bull.

“So, _Jane—“_ here Jane—or Darcy rather—frowns at her computer screen, but she no longer bothers to correct Sam so he simply continues— “please don’t tell me you’ve been following me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you just too full of yourself,” she says dryly. She fiddles with the piercings in her right ear. She also has one on the left side of her nose, Sam has noticed. “Where are they, anyway?” she asks after a pause.

“Went to buy coffee with Nathan. Don’t know what’s taking them so long.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Awkward silence. Sam reaches for his pocket, extracts a cigarette, and lights it. For the first time, he wishes for Victor and his brother’s return to come a little sooner. Elsewhere, a gaggle of children burst out a piercing laughter as they feed the fluttering flock of pigeons. 

“Well,” Sam says uneasily, takes a drag, and lets the cigarette sit between his fingers, “what brings you here then?”

This time, she looks up. She narrows her eyes at him as if he just said something completely ridiculous. Then a smug smirk curls at the corners of her mouth. This is the closest thing to a smile he is probably going to get from her, Sam decides. “Did Victor and Nathan forget to tell you?” she says. “We’re all supposed to meet a friend of mine here.”

Sam stares at her and it dawns on him. 

_Goddamn it._

“Why, of course,” says Sam, nodding, crossing his arms over his chest, trying not to sound irritated because of-fucking-course Victor and his smart-ass brother failed to mention that this contact they were about to meet was also someone Darcy knew and that she was coming along, too. He forces a smile. “So, this friend of yours—this guy we’re meeting—who exactly—“

Sam stutters to a pause when a firm clap over his shoulder stops him from whatever he was supposed to say next. He turns.

It’s Nathan.

“Sorry if we took a while,” Nathan tells Sam in an expression that clearly says how much he really is _not_ sorry. He even gives him a smile that looks like, _I’m glad you survived Darcy over the last half hour._ This little punk. Then, to Darcy, Nathan says, “By the way, thanks for not killing my brother during my absence.”

Darcy, whose attention has been glued to her laptop the entire time, looks at Nathan. She pulls a tight smile. “Oh, don’t mention it,” she says. “I simply could not do it in broad daylight.”

Nathan laughs. “How awfully considerate of you, Darcy.”

Darcy says nothing and resumes typing away on her laptop.

Sam makes a face and decides against giving both Darcy and his smart-ass brother the satisfaction of a response. He stubs out his cigarette and turns to Nathan again. “So,” he says, “where the hell is Victor?”

“Over there.” Nathan jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “We have a—uh, a _little_ situation.” 

Sam looks behind Nathan. He begins to understand this _little_ situation when he sees Victor approaching the table, walking hand in hand with a scrawny, little raven-haired girl wearing a pink shirt underneath a denim jumper. At this point, Sam can already recognize that braided pigtails anywhere.

_Ah, shit._

Sam sighs. “What is that munchkin doing here?”

The kid obviously hears this that she rolls her eyes. “Hey, I am not a munchkin and I have a name. It’s Leticia,” she corrects Sam, her accent thick in its swell of Spanish. She lets go of Victor’s hand and Victor lets her take a seat beside Darcy. 

Meanwhile, Victor looks unusually sheepish.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Victor tells Darcy, running a hand at the back of his neck. For a moment, he appears to be a bashful young man who’s come to ask for a big favour. But the fact is that Victor is neither young nor bashful, but from the tone of his voice, it can be easily said that there is certainly a favour to be asked. “Leti wanted to come along, and I… well, I told her we’ll be back soon, but she went out on her own and followed us here—”

“That’s because you don’t ever want me to leave the hotel room and it’s been a week and I want to see places,” Leticia interrupts pointedly. “And I can take care of myself already. I’m nine.”

“You’re literally still a baby, Lettuce,” Nathan chimes in. 

Leticia frowns and shoots Nathan a deadly glare. “Stop calling me that. I said my name is—”

Darcy noisily clears her throat. This time, everyone falls silent. It is quite a surprise that they managed to get her full and undivided attention. She snaps her laptop shut, folds her hands over the table with a distinct primness, and straightens in her seat. She is about to speak, but a tinny rendering of a classic piece punctuates the silence. She fishes her phone out of her jacket pocket. After quickly texting a reply, she then looks at Victor, and then at Leticia, and then back at Victor. 

“Um, so,” she says, “back at the airport… I only picked up the three of you and—has she…” Darcy trails off as if grasping for words. She narrows her eyes at Victor. “How long has she been with you here?”

Victor shakes his head. He goes on to explain to Darcy the circumstances that brought Leticia with them in London. All things considered, Leticia coming along with them was never part of the plan. After all, who in their right and decent mind brings a nine-year-old girl across the Atlantic to join a job as big and impossible as retrieving a stolen painting? Absolutely no one. Sam has known Victor for quite some time, and though they may not see eye to eye on most things, he surely knows that the man is not _that_ kind of stupid. 

And so one can only imagine their surprise when they find Leticia bursting out of Nathan’s suitcase as soon as they got into their hotel room. It is still a mystery to them how this crafty little girl managed to fit herself in the trolley, or how she got the idea of sneaking into Victor’s plane, but the fact that she pulled it off without a hitch is equal parts impressive and positively alarming.

Darcy pensively ponders on Victor’s account of events for a while. She is absently toying with the tiny obelisk and the round silver pendant on her necklace. “And how are you two related exactly? If I may ask?” she says.

“Well, she’s my kid,” answers Victor. “Adopted,” he clarifies. “Took her in six months ago.”

“Oh.” Darcy considers Victor for a moment. Then, she nods. “Alright,” she says with such a diplomatic tone. “Honestly, I don’t mind if Leticia comes along with us. For now, at least. I’m sure my mother would be very pleased to meet her—“

Leticia leaps to hug Darcy. Sam wanted to warn the kid that, _No, don’t do that, that lady is mean and scary and she will eat you alive,_ but the deed is already done. _“Muchas gracias, señorita,”_ she says, giddy with excitement. “I promise I will not cause you trouble. I will be good.”

To Sam’s inevitable surprise, Darcy smiles and wraps her arms around Leticia. It’s the kind of genuine smile and gesture that she never deigns to give to either Sam or Nathan, as if she only reserves this side of herself to those she deems worthy. It unnerves Sam, to say the least. How can someone as cold and indifferent as her can possess such capacity to exhibit warmth and kindness? He is only left to wonder what it would feel like to be at the receiving end of her affections and… wait.

Sam quickly stops himself from entertaining such a treacherous thought.

_“Está bien,”_ says Darcy as she fixes Leticia’s braids. She rests her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “You need not be so formal, alright? And you can call me Darcy.”

“Okay, Darcy.” Leticia nods, still smiling. _“¿También hablas español?”_

_“Sí. Aprendí de mi madre. Ella es de Barcelona,"_ Darcy tells Leticia amiably. Sam hates to admit it, but he is rather impressed with her excruciatingly perfect Spanish. _“Y tú?_ How did you meet Victor?” she asks.

_“Soy de Cartagena._ That’s where I met Papá. He has been very kind to me, and he saved me from the horrible orphanage.”

“Of course. Well, you must know that your father is always kind to everyone,” Darcy affirms Leticia, a compliment that somehow makes Victor blush, if only a little. “Anyway,” she says, now turning to Victor, “I just got a text from Charlie a while back. He’s waiting for us in the parking lot.”

“Oh, yes—I almost forgot we’re meeting him here,” says Victor. He looks at Nathan, then at Sam. “I suppose we shall get going then—”

“Whoa, whoa—wait a sec,” Nathan cuts Victor off, raises a confused hand. “Where exactly are we going? From what I understood, we’re only going to meet this guy here and... that’s it.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Sam rubs a weary hand over his stubbled jaw. “And how sure are you that this contact of yours is not taking us somewhere else and murder all of us?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Victor. “You two are both paranoid little shits. Charlie’s an old friend of mine and we can trust him.”

“And I can vouch for him as well,” adds Darcy. “Besides, he kind of got in trouble recently and the police are looking for him, so he’s trying to keep a low profile.” 

“And I hope this isn’t because he killed people?” asks Sam. 

“No.” The look Darcy gives Sam is full of contempt. “But close enough, I guess.” She shrugs. “Bar fight. Broke a man’s arm, who happens to be a police officer. Anyway,” she says, “he’s taking us to see my mum. She just got back today. I don’t suppose you two don’t mind if you're finally meeting the person who hired you for this?”

Sam and Nathan exchange a look, one that says, _I don’t like this one bit._

Darcy begins packing her things, shoving her laptop back in her bag and gets up. Meanwhile, Leticia follows suit and holds Darcy’s hand.

“So how does Charlie fit in all of this?” Nathan asks. “What’s he going to contribute?”

Darcy smiles broadly as she could. It’s that smile that almost looks like a warning. 

“You’ll find out soon enough,” she says. “And I can assure you, we’ll need someone like him on this.”

Darcy’s home is an old and modest three-storey Edwardian house at the end of Darlaston Road in southwest London. They got there in no time because, as it happens, Charlie is a madman of a driver. And for someone who’s trying to keep a low profile, Charlie is pretty shit at doing it if he’s trying to get himself caught for overspeeding. How they all managed this drive without being caught for any traffic violation must be out of pure dumb luck.

At that moment, Sam understood what Darcy had meant: they would need a getaway car with an exceptionally skilled driver. Charlie—who prefers to be called by his last name Cutter, but also goes, _Charlie’s also fine, too, whatever floats your boat,_ he says—turns out to be perfect for the job. She obviously knew the odds of what they would be up against for this job, and Sam could not help but be impressed (again) by her keen attention to detail in their preparations, despite her overall meanness.

In any case, Sam is pleased to find out that Charlie is actually a surprisingly nice fellow. He’s tall and burly, and it’s easy to assume that he’s a common thug given his appearance, but despite his imposing physique, he’s quite amiable. (Though Sam wouldn’t be surprised to learn if Charlie has already killed men by snapping their necks with his bare hands.) During that particularly insane drive where Victor ended up cursing half of the time, Charlie kept cracking jokes, managed to get along with Leticia and make her laugh, and even encouraged both Sam and Nathan to talk about their misadventures and to tell their stories about their other travels that he heard from Victor, to which the brothers kindly obliged. Sam supposed it was Charlie’s way of distracting them that he was already exceeding the speed limit, but Sam appreciated the gesture. Charlie certainly has an endearing way of making everyone in his company comfortably seen and included. He is good at engaging entertaining conversations that they all barely even noticed that they had already arrived at their destination.

“And here we are,” Charlie announces casually—and so painfully casual at that, as if he just didn’t put everyone in one heck of a rollercoaster ride of a drive—as he pulls over in front of Darcy’s house. 

Once inside, Darcy leads them down a brightly-lit foyer and through a corridor lined with framed paintings and pictures of past and present family members. Sam finds himself wanting to linger a bit longer, eager to catch a glimpse of Darcy in any of the photos and curious to know what she looked like as a child, but he decides against it. In the living room, she flicks the lights open and ushers them all in.

The living room is scrupulously tidy and distinctly elegant, Sam immediately notices, and it reminds him of that time when he and Nathan barged into that old lady’s house to retrieve their mother’s journals. Yet here, it’s like walking into a perfectly curated space, sanctified by orderliness: slick white walls displayed neatly arranged abstract paintings, shelves filled with properly-labeled artifacts and sculptures ranging from different civilizations, carpets over polished parquet floors. There are books neatly stacked on every surface: over the coffee table, by the window seats, atop the ancient fireplace. Old armchairs of red velvet flank the windows. Pillows and cushions fill the green leather sofa sitting at the center of the room. A faint citrusy scent of lemons and oranges hang in the air. Everywhere is perfumed of summer. 

“Do make yourselves comfortable,” says Darcy as she straightens two pictures that hung slightly lopsided against the wall. “I’ll just go and call my mum.” Then to Leticia, she smiles and asks, “Do you want to come with me? I think there’s some stuff you might like upstairs.”

Leticia quickly turns to Victor and looks at him with those big gray eyes, tugging him at the sleeve of his shirt. “Can I come with her, Papá? Please?” she pleads sweetly. “I promise I’ll behave.”

Victor nods and smiles. “Sure, of course,” he says. “Be sure you don’t go breaking stuff, angel.”

Leticia beams. “I swear I won’t!” She hurries off to Darcy, and they both leave the room. The sound of Leticia’s footsteps running up the stairs echoes faintly and fades.

And so the men are left to their own devices.

“This house is something else,” says Nathan, looking positively pleased. He gingerly takes a seat on the sofa, takes a book from the coffee table. “Everything’s too… neat. I feel like by just breathing, I can break a vase or something.”

Meanwhile, Sam meanders to one of the many bookshelves. “So, Charlie,” he says as he pulls out an elderly volume of a book, leafing through its pages, “how did you get yourself acquainted with the Kingsleys anyway?”

“Well, Greta—Darcy’s mum—we go all the way back. Victor here included.” Charlie is sitting on the arm of the sofa right beside Nathan. “We all used to work together. Greta and Henry, they used to call us up whenever they needed help on their excavation sites. Those were fun years, isn’t that right, Victor?”

Victor laughs a rueful laughter. “Yeah, it sure was,” he agrees. He takes his seat in the armchair by the window. “They brought us to many places we never thought we’d ever see in our lifetime. Those two were a force to be reckoned with in their respective fields. But after what happened two years ago...” He sits forward, his face suddenly grave. “Greta’s abandoned all the studies and research they’ve done together. Nowadays, she’s only ever teaching at Oxford or traveling around the country for a lecture.”

Sam looks at Victor curiously. “Why? What happened two years ago?”

Victor and Charlie trade a mournful glance. It was as if with that one look, they have arrived at a silent conclusion to reveal a heavily guarded secret.

“Henry was murdered in his own office,” says Victor after a brief yet brutal pause. “Bastard who did it stole all of his life’s work, too.”

“Jesus.”

“I know. And whoever did that clearly needed Jesus to save their poor, clusterfuck of a life,” Charlie adds. He shakes his head, sighs. “But poor Darcy. I still can’t imagine… to think she was the one who discovered her old man’s body.”

Sam stares at Charlie. He swallows, stares a moment longer, tries to say something but he fails. He does not know what to say to that. He can only imagine her face, the possible sight of blood, the heartbreak.

The conversation continues on all around him but all at once, Sam is lost in a haze of white noise. What is he supposed to say even? Sure, he admits, Darcy annoys the shit out of him and he can only promise to hate her, but he can never find it in himself to wish her something so horrible. She does not deserve that. No one does. He of all people knows what it’s like. Of course he knows it better than anyone. It was him who saw his mother lifeless in her bed. He has held his dead mother’s face in his hands, and he can still see her when he closes his eyes, and god knows how sad and terrifying and demolishing it is to be the one to hold their cold, stiff hands and to plead for them to say anything, just anything, just a word, a _breath_ —

“Hey, Sam? Still with us?” 

Sam blinks. He is surprised to see Nathan standing right in front of him, snapping his fingers in front of his face, and he’s looking at Sam with a sudden flash of concern. Even Victor and Charlie are curiously watching him.

Sam shakes his head. “Yeah, still here—sorry for spacing out,” he says, forcing himself to smile. The book in his hand weighs even heavier. He returns it back to its place in the shelf. His ears are still buzzing, and he steadies himself back into the conversation. “So. Anyway. Where were we again?”

“Charlie here is saying that there’s been no progress with the murder,” Nathan recounts, sits back on his previous spot on the sofa. “Apparently, the detectives assigned to the case keep running on dead ends.”

"Right, right, right," says Sam vacantly. "But how’s Darcy now?” 

Victor and Nathan exchange a glance. Then, it is Charlie who answers the question and says, "She’s coping much better, thankfully. After her father’s death, we had to convince her to move back here for her own sake because we found out from her uni friends that she hasn’t been eating and—“

“Looks like my good friend Charlie has all filled you in with my family history.”

The four men turn. Standing by the doorway is a woman with short-cropped silver hair, all dressed in a gray suit, cradling a set of journals in her arms. It is easy to see how she is the woman of the house, with the way her presence occupies the room with an air of dignified familiarity. 

“Oh, hey there Greta,” Charlie says, waving a hand. “Sorry for getting ahead of things—”

“No, it’s fine—it did save me a lot of breath from having to retell the story,” says Greta. Then she turns to look at Victor. “Well, well. It’s good to see you, Sullivan.”

“Good to see you, too,” says Victor. “It’s been a long time, Greta.”

“Certainly.” She smiles. “I must say, you have completely surprised me. Adopting a daughter? It sounds so unlike you.”

“Oh, so you’ve met her?”

“Yes. Quite a lovely child. She and Darcy are now exploring my study as we speak. Anyway,” she says sharply, “I've been keeping you all for too long under the dark. Shall we move onto business?” 

Everyone nods in agreement. Victor takes the time to introduce both Sam and Nathan, and pleasantries are exchanged. Greta gestures everyone to take a seat.

“So Greta,” Nathan begins, “I’m not going to beat around the bush any longer but I… well, _we_ want to know: why would you want us to recover this painting? Apart from the reward, that is.”

Greta smiles, although sadly. “My husband has been studying many of Rembrandt’s works over the years,” she says. “I won’t bore you too much with the details but two weeks ago, I found one of his journals in the basement. I had assumed everything important had been stolen in his office. His former research partner at the time helped with the investigation and said just as much, so I thought little of trying to find if he had anything left. But then, I stumbled upon this note.” She sets one of the journals down on the coffee table and flips it on a specific page. She shows it to everyone, and Sam could hardly believe what he is reading:

_Magsy, something is hidden inside the Belshazzar’s Feast. Don't let anyone else find it. Darcy is the key._


	2. Darcy Kingsley

“I still can’t believe you showed them the note,” Darcy tells her mother over breakfast. She grabs a piece of toast from the plate and starts to butter it a little too brutally. “And I can’t believe you’re letting them stay _here._ Leticia and Victor, I mean, I could accept of course, but those brothers— _”_

“I find Nathan and Samuel rather agreeable if you ask me.” Greta reaches for the teapot and pours herself a cup of tea. “And they’re very clever, too. Samuel helped me translate a Latin text I was reviewing last night—”

“Of course he did,” says Darcy wryly. The thought of _that_ man trying to get her mother’s good favour vexes her. She takes a bite of her toast, chews, swallows. She washes it down with a gulp of orange juice. “I don’t trust them. Especially _him.”_

“Not a surprise. You don’t trust anyone,” says Greta.

Darcy winces. “Alright, that… is a fair and an accurate assessment of my character.” She picks up another toast, dips her knife in a jar of marmalade, and spreads it all over the bread just as aggressively as she did with the last. She seems intent on putting a good dose of aggression in eating her breakfast this morning, it seems.

“Oh, Jane, I’m your mother and I know you better than most.” Greta unfolds a napkin and wipes the side of her mouth. “Also,” she goes on, “letting them stay here is the least I could offer when I’m dragging them all in this mess. And they have every right to know of my motivations.”

“But again, you didn’t have to show them that note.”

“Why ever not? It’s not like it’s a personal—”

“It is to me!” Darcy drops her cutlery that it shrieks its tinny, indignant clatter against her plate. She stares at her mother. Her mother says nothing and looks away.

Over the last two years, Darcy has sailed the tumultuous tides of her grief and devoted all her strength to rebuild her life from the wreckage of her father’s death. It was rotten work, having to piece and stitch and bolt herself back together. She had every intention to grieve for him forever, to let depression swallow her whole, but as it turns out, there’s work to be done, classes to attend, meals to eat, murderers to hunt. Thieves to trace. Life has to go on. 

And so when her mother called her one Saturday morning a few weeks ago telling her to come home for the weekend, Darcy thought little of it. She suspected her mother was keen to learn how she was faring in the university or simply pry on her personal life, as all mothers are keen to do. Instead, what welcomed her home was the sight of her mother crying over her father’s old journals she happened to have found hidden in his writing space. If there was any consolation, the journals only contained most of his notes about his study (Baroque art, Rembrandt’s contemporaries, his usual points of conversation in his lectures) and not some highly detailed accounts of his extramarital affairs. (“If that had been the case, I would kill myself just so I could kill him again in hell,” said her mother.) And when Darcy saw that particular note, it was as if a perfectly patched hole inside her came undone. She remembered reading and rereading it. Seeing her name written in her father’s elegant handwriting was one thing, yes, but the message was another. It did not make sense. The only thing that struck her was the date. 4th of March, 1996. It was written on her 18th birthday. 

It was also the same day she promised to meet her father for lunch after her classes, but instead, she found him dead in his office.

There are far worse presents, but no one deserves to find their father with three gunshot wounds to the chest and swimming in the pool of his own blood on their birthday. 

So yes, this is personal for Darcy. It is personal because that message is theirs, hers and her mother’s. She wants to preserve every last fragment of her father with a selfishness that hardly unnerves her anymore. The people who murdered him have already taken too much. They have taken too much from her, from her sister, from her mother. The police have completely given up on the case. And if there’s anyone who has to untangle this puzzle her father’s death has left them with, it has to be her and no one else. It has to be her and not just some common thief.

“It’s the last thing I have of him,” Darcy says finally. Her voice is distant and cold. 

“And it’s the last thing I have of him, too.” Greta reaches for Darcy’s hand and squeezes it. “See, I know how much this means to you, I truly do, but I’m willing to go through lengths for answers just as you would. And we can’t do this on our own, Jane.”

Darcy sighs. “I could have done this on my own.”

“No. And I won’t let you, not without help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“Oh, Jane, _mija.”_ Greta shakes her head slightly. She looks down on her cup, takes a sip of her tea. Her gesture alone is enough to tell Darcy that she is about to hear her mother say something sharp and wise and true. Darcy braces herself for the impact. 

“Everyone needs help,” says her mother. “Everyone always does.”

Darcy returns to her room and finds Leticia standing at a rather cautious distance away from her desk, looking up at the six different monitors mounted on the wall, her face bathing in its minty, fluorescent glow. She is staring at it with such awe that she barely notices Darcy walking right behind her.

“See something interesting?” asks Darcy, resting a hand over her shoulder.

Leticia turns with a start. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t touch anything, I promise.” She points at one of the screens. “I just heard something, like a beeping sound. And also that thing went from red to green.”

Darcy follows the direction Leticia is pointing at. Third and lower monitor to the right. Amongst all the six monitors—three on the left displaying a virtual map of London, the middle ones showing different parts of the Kingsley home—the particular one on the right is flashing a loading bar that has reached completion. _Download successful,_ it says. And there is a message from one Lola Griffin.

Darcy eagerly takes a seat, opens her laptop, which is displaying the exact same thing as the lower right monitor. She opens the message. It reads:

_Have you seen my little gift? Recovering that footage drained me. Message me soon. xx_

The little gift in question was something Darcy had been looking forward to from Lola that she had it downloaded before she sat down with her mother for breakfast. She and Lola had been working on this since the incident in the National Gallery broke out; had she been in her flat, she would have gotten to this way sooner, foregoing any thought of eating at all. This gem of a find is too good to be kept waiting. But considering she’s currently staying at her mother’s house, breakfast with her mother always comes first.

Darcy is about to open the file when Leticia taps a finger on her shoulder. “Um, Darcy? 

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?” 

Darcy swivels her seat to face her. “Certainly. What is it?”

Leticia scratches a cheek. “Um, why do you have a lot of… these TVs? What are they for?” 

Darcy smiles. “They’re not TVs, Leticia,” she says kindly. “They’re called monitors. It’s part of a computer.”

“Oh. Okay.” Leticia nods thoughtfully. “And you really need all of them?” Her little, pink mouth quirks into a pout. She seems awfully distressed with the idea of owning more than one monitor for a computer.

“Yes,” says Darcy. “It helps me with my work.”

“Hm. Okay.” Leticia looks around. There is both a curious and fascinated glint in her eyes, as though she is drinking every detail of the room, a look that Darcy finds strangely endearing. Ever since meeting the girl, Darcy has been drawn to her, as if there is a part of her that finally remembered how much she had wanted for a little sister. Which she did at a time. Her older sister, Emma, always took care of her, and Darcy, at some point as a kid, had somehow decided to pass along the same degree of kindness to a younger sibling should her mother decide to bring another Kingsley child into the world. But that, of course, never happened. Now, with her sister gone to university in the States, she has a surplus of affection stored and saved inside of her, biding its time and waiting to burst. Perhaps this is a common thing shared by people who are youngest in the family, she decides, to possess that small, hungry need to look after someone else. People like her have so much love to give.

“This part of your room is like… a machine,” Leticia says finally, twirling her braided pigtail around her ring finger. “It’s weird but I like it.”

Darcy lets out a small laugh. The observation is astute, if not too true to a fault. As far as rooms go, Darcy’s room exhibits an odd dichotomy of old things and new. On one side she has her single bed with fresh white linens, an old reading chair, columns of ancient mahogany shelves nearly packed to the brim with poetry volumes and art books; on the other she has her workstation, where all her computer equipment has been set up to a degree of an almost mechanical perfection. Network cables are finely lined on the floor. No wire is ever found out of its place. Even stacks of diskettes and CDs are all labeled in great detail. Her room is not exactly spacious, but she makes do with her ability to arrange things to saintly orderliness. 

Leticia considers Darcy for a moment. “Um, are you working now?” she asks. “Is it okay if I watch?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Darcy. “Go pull that chair over there.”

As Leticia drags another swivel chair, Darcy finally opens the file and a video starts to play from her laptop screen. 

In it is the exact moment _The Belshazzar’s Feast_ was stolen.

The camera is angled from the corner of a doorway. There are four guards who appear to be doing their rounds, until they start to do something guards are not supposed to do: take out a goddamn painting. Two of them carefully lift the frame and tug it out of the wall. The others are on the lookout. Darcy then switches the video footage to the one she recovered days earlier. This time, the video shows the moment the thieves got out of the back of the museum carrying the painting wrapped in cloth with such distinct carefulness, as if they were just casually walking out of a furniture store and bought themselves a really expensive piece of mirror.

 _The gallery has one of the tightest securities in the country,_ Darcy muses to herself. Then she realizes a possibility: the fact that these people did not even disable the security cameras and simply waltzed right in wearing a plain uniform of a guard must mean someone must have helped them from the inside. 

Leticia taps her on the shoulder again. “Darcy, can I ask another question?”

“Yeah?”

“That was the robbery, right? The one in this, uh… a gallery?”

Darcy turns to her, slightly startled. “How did you know that?”

“It’s because a lot of the newspapers in the hotel only have that in front of the page.”

“Oh. Of course.” 

Leticia looks pensive. “And… that’s the job my Papá and Sammy and Natey are going to do right? You’re going to help them, too?”

Darcy hesitates, not really wanting to tell Leticia how technically, _they_ are the ones helping _her_ and not the other way around, but decides against explaining something so complicated to a kid because it will most certainly steer into a much more complicated subject that is her father. So Darcy answers: “Yeah. Sort of.”

They are both quiet for a while. 

“Do you, um, hate Sammy and Natey?” asks Leticia after a meek pause.

Darcy is surprised with the question. “Well, I don’t exactly _hate_ them,” she says. “Hate is quite a strong word. I just… I don’t trust them. Yet. Why do you ask?”

Leticia shrugs. “Nothing, it’s just… you don’t seem to hang out with them. But it’s okay if you don’t like Sammy. He can be what Papá calls a big _hijo de puta._ I don’t know what that means but Papá is always angry when he says it so I think it must be bad. But he’s nice, too, sometimes. Natey is the nicest, though. He is like a big brother to me.”

“Oh.” Darcy tempers the sudden interest with this particular revelation. 

Though her opinion of the Drake brothers was largely influenced and shaped by what she found out about them in her perfectly thorough background check, it is important to note that Darcy doesn’t really hate Samuel and Nathan. It’s just that she finds it hard to trust people who operate the way they do, the heartless manner in which they steal and take and take and take without an iota of consideration for the people and places they steal from. She had read all the accounts of their larceny, the number of times they have been in jail, their many different successful archaeological exploits achieved in terribly illegal means. And so to hear Leticia speak of them with such fondness is somewhat jarring. Darcy never expected Nathan could ever possess such a soft spot on his ruthless, thieving body that he can treat Leticia with kindness. Perhaps Darcy had been quick to judge him and his brother.

Or maybe just Nathan. But Samuel? God help her, that man is a different story. His arrogance and self-conceit are too much for Darcy to bear. 

And yet now… she cannot help but be curious about Leticia’s opinion of the older Drake brother.

“So Sammy—I mean, Samuel—“ Darcy clears her throat, tries not to sound overly intrigued— “he’s not like a big brother to you?” she asks as evenly as possible.

“He is, too. He is also nice, but he often calls me a lot of nicknames I don’t like. He calls me donut, munchkin. Leti Spaghetti. That one is the worst.”

 _But Leti Spaghetti is quite catchy._ Darcy decides not to share this thought. Instead, she offers, “Do you want me to talk to Samuel for you? Tell him to stop?”

Leti shakes her head and smiles. “No, it’s fine. I will just stomp him on the foot next time.”

Darcy laughs. She looks fondly at Leticia, brushes the girl’s loose lock of hair behind her ear. “Here’s what I suggest you can do,” she says. “My father always tells me how some men are weak to women’s tears, so he says that if ever I find myself in trouble, I should pretend to cry and then when they fall for the trick, I should quickly punch them in the face or kick them in the crotch.”

“Oh, that sounds like a nice trick.” Leticia is grinning, clearly amused with the idea. Then her face becomes solemn, thoughtful. “But what if they don’t fall for it?”

“Well, just go straight to punching them in the face or kicking them in the crotch.”

Leticia nods. “Okay. That’s what I will do next time if Sammy calls me again with his nicknames.”

“Yes,” agrees Darcy, laughing. “Yes, you should.”

As soon as Leticia decided to take an afternoon nap in Darcy’s bed after lunch—the curious girl was exhausted asking Darcy many different questions about computers, which Darcy kindly obliged because no one has ever been that interested to talk about computers with her before, especially not a curious nine-year-old girl—Darcy takes her work downstairs at her mother’s study. Much to her chagrin, she finds Samuel poring over a history book—her mother’s favourite—on an armchair by the window. He has not noticed her coming in, so she simply lets this go and decides to deliberately ignore him. She plants herself on the far side of the couch.

Darcy replays the video of the exit. She scans the footage, zooms in for the tiniest detail that can help her track these motherfuckers. She looks and looks and looks even more closely until… there it is. A black Sedan with a clear image of the plate number. Even better. She quickly shifts the window to a database, does a quick search, waits for a few seconds, returns to the video and then—

“So whatcha doin’?” a voice says behind her. It’s Samuel.

“You’re distracting me,” says Darcy sharply. “Go away—“

“Wait, is that a security footage?” Samuel leans in over her shoulder. He is so close to her that she can smell his scent. Coffee and cigarettes and a faint musky perfume. “Holy shit. Is that the footage from the National Gallery?” The question unsettles Darcy that she immediately expects Samuel to say _How did you even do it,_ or worse, _Girls like you shouldn’t be doing these kinds of things_ that the next thing that he says actually takes her by surprise: “This is really cool, Jane. I gotta say, I’m impressed.”

Darcy shrugs. “Oh. Um, thanks. And again, can you not call me Jane—“

“But wait—“ Samuel hops over the couch to sit beside her— “in the newspapers, they mentioned that the security footage has been destroyed, that it was an almost perfectly clean heist of sorts. So how on earth—“

“Archive,” Darcy says plainly. Samuel stares at her, waiting for her to elaborate, and just so he could leave her alone, she goes on to explain: “The gallery has a very sophisticated security system in place and it automatically archives all video footage. I can only assume the security guy who helped these fools was someone new and had no idea about this that he just deleted the security footage without checking the archive. It’s kind of a sloppy job, if you ask me.”

Samuel raises an eyebrow. “Wait, so are you saying this was an inside job?”

“Most likely. They could have simply disabled the security cameras during that window they are stealing the painting, or cut off the power to avoid being seen, but instead, they didn’t. It’s a good thing, though. That stupidity is exactly the window I need.”

“Huh.” Samuel nods pensively, crosses his arms over his chest. “So what else did you find?” he asks.

Darcy says nothing. She decides not to answer Samuel when she finally sees that her search on the plate number has already yielded results. There is a certain Gabriel Roman registered to the car. She runs another program and tries to uncover as much information about this man. In a moment, she learns that Gabriel Roman is a businessman and an art collector. Owns an island in the Bahamas. Well-connected with some members of the royal family. Hosts black market auctions under the guise of fancy dinner parties.

And he is about to host an invite-only charity gala at Hampton Court Palace in a week.

The odds of this idiot selling the Rembrandt piece here would make absolute sense.

Sam noisily clears his throat. “Uh, Jane? Looks to me you just found something.”

“Yes, I did,” says Darcy. She snaps her laptop shut and gets up. “Looks like we all need to suit up in a week’s time. We have a party to crash.”

* * *

The following morning, Darcy had planned to meet Lola at her usual hub in Covent Garden, but she never planned to end up having Samuel come along with her. 

“I told you, you didn’t have to go with me,” Darcy tells Samuel as she stops in front of a pub called Griffin’s Lair. “I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“Oh, c’mon.” Samuel smiles that too friendly smile of his again, flashing his annoyingly perfect teeth. “What’s wrong with wanting to keep you company, Jane?”

Darcy groans loud enough for him to hear, and he only smiles in amusement. She is so tired correcting Samuel that she just says, “Because you’re the last person I want to keep me company, Samuel. And I don’t trust you.”

Samuel laughs. Even the way his face crinkles in laughter annoys the shit out of Darcy. “I think you’ve made that abundantly clear the first time you saw us at the airport,” he says in a tone that clearly suggests that he doesn’t give a fuck. “But since we’re all working on this together, you really don’t have much of a choice. And since my brother volunteered to look more into this Gabriel Roman fella, Charlie surveying the layout of Hampton Court Palace, and Victor enjoying a dad-daughter day out with Leticia, I’m afraid that today, you’re going to be stuck with me.”

Darcy finds that rolling her eyes is the only fitting response. 

“Also,” he adds, “just call me Sam alright.”

This time, Darcy stares at him. He’s way taller than she is, so her best shot at intimidation is to throw him her most cutting glare. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Quite a hilarious request,” she says. “And if I call you Sam, will you stop calling me Jane?”

Samuel looks as if to seriously consider the offer for a fraction of a moment. Then, he generously gives her that shit-eating grin of his that she loves to hate. “No,” he says. “Actually, on second thought, I am completely unbothered if you don’t call me by my nickname.”

Darcy rolls her eyes again. With Samuel, she doesn’t seem to be running out of eye-rolls to spare.

“So where exactly are we going?” he asks. “Where are we to meet this friend of yours?”

“Actually,” says Darcy, “we’re already here.”

Darcy heads inside the Griffin’s Lair, with Samuel following close behind her. The pub is empty, save for the lanky and heavily-tattooed bartender who is busy cleaning glasses behind the counter. No sign of Lola. A soft, Latin ballad is playing through the speakers. The air is somewhat stuffy, and it still reeks of the stench of last night’s party and vomit. 

As soon as the bartender spots Darcy, he gives her a small nod. She nods back.

“You know where to find her,” says the bartender, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Of course,” says Darcy. “Thanks.”

Past the bar, the glass cabinets of liquor bottles, a number of fancy yet uncleaned booths, and a red swing door, Darcy leads Sam to the back of a room where an old jukebox sits between a green door with a sign that says _Authorized Personnel Only_ and a painting of a pirate ship. She stops in front of the jukebox and examines the song list.

Samuel looks around, eyes her curiously. “Is it really the time for you to change this pub’s playlist—”

Darcy darts her eyes at him and gives him a look that says, _Shut up and let me concentrate._ He raises both hands in resignation and a shrug that says, _Sorry, I’m just saying._

Darcy pulls out her phone and rereads Lola’s text that says: _Griffin’s Lair per usual. Today’s clue: sugar and spice._ She reviews the song list. She knows how the mechanism works—Darcy has been here before, of course—and it’s only a matter of choosing the right song, but much to her annoyance, the song list in the jukebox has changed from the last time she was here. Half of the titles on the list now are unfamiliar to her. Some of it, she only knows half of the lyrics. And with Lola’s mechanisms, there’s always no room for error because one mistake is fatal. If she picks the wrong song, she and Samuel will be dead. Quite literally.

Darcy heaves a sharp sigh. 

“Something the matter?” asks Samuel.

“Would you… would you know if any of these songs have _sugar and spice_ in it?” 

“Whatever for?”

“I’ll explain later. Just…” She pauses. She knows the next thing she is about to say is something that she may or may not regret, so she says it anyway: “I’d really appreciate some help here.”

Samuel narrows his eyes at her, and she can see that the look on his face is a face of triumph. “Oh, did I hear that right? You need _my_ help?”

“Please don’t be such a pain in the ass.”

“Takes one to know one. But fine, let me have a look.” He goes to stand beside her in front of the jukebox. A minute does not even pass before he says, “I can’t believe you don’t know the full lyrics of _this_ slapper—”

“Wait—” Darcy holds him by the wrist before he can press anything—“are you sure about that?”

Samuel nods, smiles smugly. “You can try trusting me a little, Jane.”

Darcy hesitates. Then she lets go of him and he presses the button. James Brown’s _I Feel Good_ starts to play in the pub.

“Ah, shit,” says Darcy under her breath. “I should’ve known—“

“So,” says Samuel, “mind explaining to me now what that was for—“

He stops short when the wall where the painting was hanging slides back and reveals an entrance. Inside, there is a stairway leading to a lower floor.

Samuel looks at the newly opened doorway and then at Darcy. “What the ever loving fuck—”

“Good job, Samuel,” says Darcy, slapping him on his back. “And thank you. Now we go onward.”

Darcy leads the way down a short corridor that opens into a spacious, well-lit room. There are piles of canvases everywhere, some filled with artwork and some empty, and the smell of acrylic and charcoal is thick in the air. Splatters of paint are all over the cement floor. A computer terminal with a pair of monitors sits at the far end. It’s like walking into an artist’s studio, but with a distinct difference: some of the paintings should not even be _here._

On one side of the room hangs Edvard Munch’s _The Scream,_ Vincent Van Gogh’s _The Starry Night,_ Johannes Vermeer’s _A Girl With A Pearl Earring_ among many others. 

“Jesus,” says Samuel as he looks around in part amazement and disbelief. “Is that the fucking _Mona Lisa?”_ He turns to look at Darcy. “Did your friend just steal this from the Louvre—“

“No, I did not steal that from the Louvre, and yes, that is indeed the fucking _Mona Lisa,”_ answers a tall woman who emerges from behind an easel sitting in the middle of the room with a massive canvas on it. She’s wearing a loose white shirt stained with all sorts of paint over a pair of ripped jeans. Her hair is all tied up, making it a bouquet of lush black curls. “But if you look closely," she continues, "it’s far from being Leonardo Da Vinci’s masterpiece.”

“But I do think it is a masterpiece,” says Darcy. “A masterpiece for a counterfeit.” She smiles. “It’s nice to see you today, Lola.”

“Nice to see you, too, babe,” says Lola. She wipes her hands on her shirt and looks at Samuel. “And oh my—if it isn’t _the_ Samuel Drake.”

Samuel shoots Darcy a confused look, and then back at Lola. “Wait,” he says, “I’m sure I would never forget someone as pretty as you but have we met?”

“No, we haven’t,” answers Lola, “but I do have an inclination to follow news from the underground art scene from time to time and I have heard a great deal about you and your brother. Never thought the day would come that I’d get to meet one-half of the Drake brothers. The art heist you pulled in Peru? Top-notch, by the way.”

Samuel frowns, and then as if hit by a flash of lightning, his face brightens to a sudden realization. “That painting… that was fake?”

Lola shrugs. “I’d say it was better than the original.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“But you did get the money you were promised, didn’t you? I’d say it wasn’t exactly a complete failure on your part,” says Lola, patting Samuel on the back as if they have forged a friendship made out of the illegal circumstances they share. Then, turning to Darcy, she says, “Anyway, we have a lot to catch up on but I’m actually more curious as to why you wanted to meet, and with such urgency, too. Was there a problem with the footage I sent?”

“No, it’s not that,” says Darcy. “It’s something else, actually.”

“Which is?”

Darcy bites her lip. The request is ridiculous but she might as well just spit it out. 

“I need you to paint _The Belshazzar’s Feast_ for us,” she says. “Can you do it in a week?”

Lola laughs. “Girl, give me three days.”


	3. Sam Drake

“So, how do I look?” Nathan asks as he slightly adjusts the bowtie of his finely-tailored tux, looking at Sam through the mirror and keen to hear his older brother’s opinion. For a rental piece, it appears exquisitely made, as if it’s been custom made for Nathan. The tux suits him perfectly, Sam sees as much, and it makes his brother look sharper and dapper and tastefully rich. 

But of course, Sam is not about to tell Nathan all of _that._

Sam sits forward on the edge of the bed, palms pressed together. With Nathan standing in front of him, all six-foot-something of him in a nice tux, Greta’s guest room feels terribly smaller. He pretends to assess Nathan from head to foot. He knows handing Nathan a compliment would only boost his ego, so he only says: “It’s not bad.”

_“Not bad?”_ Nathan echoes, distinctly pissed. “Really? That’s all you got?”

Sam laughs. He gets up behind Nathan, looks at him in the mirror. “Let’s see,” he says, tapping a finger on his chin. “You look so slick like you’re about to make the ladies all wet.” A cheeky grin spreads all over his face as he slaps a firm hand over his brother’s shoulder. “How about that?”

Nathan rolls his eyes, shrugs. “I was expecting something a little less crude, but I’ll take what I can get.” He picks off a piece of lint from the collar of his coat. “Anyway,” he says, “how about you? Where the hell’s your tux?”

“Done fitting mine last night.”

“Huh. Really?” Nathan wheels around to face Sam, eyebrows raised in surprise. “On your own? ‘Cause you always need help with these kinds of things because you tend to rip something off—“

“Yeah, yeah—I know, no need to rub it in, you little shit.” Sam makes a face. “So no, I didn’t do it on my own. Jane helped me.”

“Oh.” Nathan pauses. A curious look passes his face. “Right. Okay.” 

Sam holds his stare for a moment. 

Then Nathan smiles, nods, looking altogether positively amused. “So. _Jane_ helped you,” he repeats.

Sam frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” says Nathan, in a tone that clearly suggests he means _something._ He shrugs, waves a dismissive hand. “I mean, you two have been awfully close together these past few days. Must be nice to spend a lot of time with someone you don’t like, huh, big brother.”

“Ha, very funny.” 

Sam drifts to an open window, extracts a cigarette from his pocket, and lights it. Outside, the sky is a bright, chlorine-blue.

The last couple of days, as Nathan has already brazenly mentioned, Sam did spend an awful lot of time with Darcy, but he wouldn’t really call it a nice time. The good news is that Darcy now talks to him, which Sam considers a significant progress. (She still doesn’t smile at him. There’s a lot of work left in that department.) The bad news: he now also has to endure her barbed quips and backhanded compliments. He could not decide if she means most of it or not, or if she is even aware of her uncanny ability to be scathing, but he should have expected that someone as cold and quiet as her would have an arsenal of cutting comebacks at her disposal. Not that Sam ever minds it. Probably a good thing, he decides, that he grew up with a younger brother like Nathan, who never runs out of smart-ass things to say ever since they were children. It’s as if their entire childhood of petty squabbles and silly fights have all been a preparation to make dealing with Darcy a little less painful for his ego.

Still, Sam and Darcy have yet to see eye to eye on some things. After meeting with her friend Lola—who, by the way, is quite an extraordinary painter-slash-forger and computer programmer, and even though Sam is relieved that she is much more affable compared to Darcy, he is also equally terrified of her, like there is no doubt she can murder him with a paintbrush—he and Darcy have been at odds on how they should approach this job. He wants this done the quick and easy way. She wants it elaborately and meticulously planned, like if she could exhaust all the letters in the alphabet to formulate a back-up plan, she would. (And Sam wouldn’t even be surprised if Darcy’s already done all that.) Not that there’s anything wrong with her methods. Frankly, he’s amazed by how insanely detail-oriented she is. It’s just, well. It’s all too far from the straightforward way of how Sam and Nathan typically plan and operate these kinds of things. 

Of course, everyone else was onboard with her plan, so it wasn’t exactly up for debate. 

Maybe Sam has been way too accustomed to working alone with his brother that working with anyone else—and working with a big crew for that matter—feels rather disarming. They’re good at working together, but they’re not exactly good collaborators with outside parties. They can be selfish and untrusting, the both of them. But if anything, as far as Sam knows Nathan, he is usually the wary one who is more reluctant to include anyone on their stints—at least, anyone _except_ Victor. Nathan trusts the guy too much. Sam could do the same, but after what happened in La Paz that got him in jail for three months, he’ll be damned to trust Victor ever again. 

And considering how Victor knows Charlie and even Darcy, who’s to say they won’t be capable of betraying Sam in that same fashion?

Sam blows out a long stream of smoke and lets go of the wearying thought.

“Look,” begins Nathan, shouldering off his coat and hanging it neatly on a dresser, “I know you would’ve preferred doing this job on our own, but we wouldn’t have come this far if Sully hadn’t brought Darcy in.” He is changing out of his suit and back into his white shirt and pair of jeans. “And I mean, I looked into Gabriel Roman and that guy’s dangerous. The fact he stole that kind of painting is nuts. And he’s associated with a lot of cartels, a lot of other notorious crime lords. If Darcy went on with her plan to take that guy down on her own, god knows she could’ve—”

“—put herself in inevitable danger, so clearly she was meant to do this job with us,” finishes Sam. He exhales another puff of smoke. The thought of Darcy in trouble somehow unsettles him with a kind of worry that makes him deeply uncomfortable. “Well, it’s nice to know that she’s wise enough _not_ to do all that.”

“Yeah—and also, you have to admit that her plan’s pretty solid, too,” adds Nathan.

“Right. Of course.”

“And, you know, I wasn’t really keen on having her and Charlie, but—”

“But because it’s upon Victor Sullivan’s recommendation, it’s much easier to put your good faith on them, yeah?” 

Nathan scowls. “Oh, c’mon—this is different. And don’t tell me you’re still not over with what happened in La Paz?”

“Of course I won’t be over with what happened in La Paz!” Sam stubs out his cigarette, buries in the flowerbed by the window, and turns to Nathan. He tries not to sound annoyed, but everytime his brother takes Victor’s side, he just couldn’t seem to help himself. “Victor should’ve been the one in jail at that time, but let’s not forget he made me take the fall.”

“Yeah, I know—but Sam, let’s not also forget that Sully got you out!”

Sam’s jaw is set and he is suddenly seething. “Oh, yes. Sure he did. Not before I paid for the price of his mistakes in full. I still have the fucking scars to show for it.”

Nathan opens his mouth to protest but then closes it. Sam wants to rejoice on emerging triumphant in this conversation, but he only feels awful. He detests having to argue with his brother more than anything else. Especially not at this time.

The silence that sits between them is awkward and miserable.

“Okay, fine,” says Nathan after the awful pause. He sighs, drags a weary hand through his hair. He takes a seat on the other bed. “I’m sorry, I never should’ve brought that up.”

Sam leans back against the windowsill, looks down at his feet. “Forget about it,” he says. “It’s fine.” 

Another silence. Out on the street, a vehicle whirs past. Birds are chirping at the eaves. Sam pulls out a coin from his pocket and begins flipping it through his fingers.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“About Darcy… do you really hate her that much?”

“Hey, whoa—hate is a _very_ extreme word. And where the hell did that question come from?”

“Just curious. So?”

“No, of course I don’t hate her. I just…” Sam trails off, falters. He is still absently fiddling with the coin in his hand. “She’s… well, she’s not really easy to like,” he says rather uncertainly. 

“Oh. Okay.” Nathan nods thoughtfully. “So if that’s the case, you wouldn’t mind if I ask her out?”

Sam, for some reason, stiffens at the question. The coin that now rests at the palm of his hand sears its weight into his skin. He stares at Nathan as if he had just spoken in a language that does not exist in this universe. The words register slowly, and as it does, all at once, every bone in his body is overwhelmed with an irrational surge to protest, to say with vehemence, _No, don’t you dare, date everyone else but her—_

“Hey, I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” Nathan bursts out laughing. “Jesus, Sam—the look on your face! I knew I smelled something funny, and now I understand why. Because you’re so full of shit.”

Sam scowls. “Oh, fuck off—“

“So,” Nathan says, almost breathless, “you do _like_ her—“

“Absolutely not,” says Sam, his tone forcefully noncommittal. “I don’t like _like_ her. Not in that way, okay? So yes, feel free to ask her out or whatever—“

“Relax, I really wasn’t planning on doing that, I swear to god.” Nathan is smiling broadly, clearly amused. “I can’t do that to Darcy, so you have nothing to worry about—“

“I’m not worried.”

“Right. Sure.”

“I’m more worried to know that you’re such an asshole.”

“What can I say?” Nathan laughs again. “We’re brothers. I got it from you.”

As everyone gathers around the living room that evening, Sam notices her boots again. Exhausted, beaten boots, as though she has dragged it for miles or on craggy treks for years that it has now acquired an aged, weatherworn look. Sam decides this is how Darcy likes her things: worn and broken in for comfort. She places her trust in things that last. She likes things that know how to endure her.

Sam listens to Darcy brief everyone about the plan which, in a nutshell, is this: steal the painting back and replace it with Lola’s counterfeit. Darcy explains that the counterfeit is necessary to buy them some ample time to study the painting and figure out the message her father has left her with before they return the piece to the National Gallery and before Gabriel Roman’s guys could even figure out that what they have in hand is a fake. (They’ve already seen Lola’s copy of _The Belshazzar’s Feast_ , and Sam has to admit, he knows little when it comes to paintings but the thing looks like the actual shit.) She also means to install a thing called a “bug” on Roman’s phone, mentioning how she needs to track his movements and to listen in to his conversations so they can plan accordingly in the unfortunate event that they get found out—a task which, by all intents and purposes, Darcy intends to carry out on her own until Sam volunteered to help her out. All reason is lost to him as to why he even offered Darcy his help at the time, but he vaguely remembers boasting how he is the best pickpocket between him and Nathan, arguing how a nice, clean lift would be essential for her to accomplish the task. Realizing Sam was right, Darcy agreed to let him help. Now he has to stick with it. Which is why as far as all their tasks go, Nathan and Sully will handle the switch, Charlie will remain on standby for their escape and stay in the van to monitor the surveillance. (And _of course_ Darcy has already managed to hack all the security cameras in Hampton Court Palace, among the many other things she has managed to do in a week, like adding their names in the guest list, securing the auction program, and asking Lola to reproduce a copy of the invitation for all of them, which Sam thinks is fucking insane.) Meanwhile, Sam and Darcy will schmooze their way into Gabriel Roman’s company, and Sam will steal his phone while Darcy will perform her technical sorcery like she always does. 

Still, even as Darcy continues to explain at length all the nitty-gritty details of what they have to do, Sam keeps noticing the little things that he shouldn’t even be paying attention to. For instance, he notices how her hair is like molten gold underneath a yellow light. He notices her freckled arms. It’s almost as if someone has spilled cinnamon all over her skin. He even wonders if she likes her own freckles. Not many of them do, but he wishes she likes them. He also notices how her laughter is like a clap of thunder whenever Charlie or Victor tells a joke. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he wishes she could laugh like that with him, let alone smile at him, and some days he finds himself with a terrible need to use his thumbs to pull her mouth into a grin, and as the cops drag him out, he’ll be pleading, _Smile, goddamn it, just this once, for the love of God._

Maybe if Sam hadn’t had that conversation earlier with Nathan, he wouldn’t be this distracted. But then again, maybe he needed that conversation. Because it is in that moment when Darcy turns to everyone and then to Sam with a smile—not her brightest smile but still a smile nonetheless—and she asks if they’re all good to go and he only answers with a nod that he finally admits the astonishing truth to himself.

_I never hated Jane. Not once. And I don’t think I could ever hate her at all._

“Um, Samuel? Can we talk for a moment?” 

Darcy saunters into the kitchen as Sam helps himself with the coffeemaker. Greta has been kind enough to teach him how to operate the thing ever since she found out how much he enjoys a cup of coffee, but this is the first time he’s ever trying to make use of it. Tonight seems to be the perfect night. He can’t bring himself to sleep yet, not with the big job happening tomorrow, and he is more determined to keep himself awake as he pours a scalding black coffee into an empty cup, as dark as the pit of his soul. 

He takes a seat on the barstool opposite Darcy. “Yeah, sure,” he says. “What’s up?”

Darcy looks strangely uncertain. She is fiddling with the obelisk and round silver pendant around her neck. “Well,” she says, leaning against the countertop, “about the whole plan of stealing Gabriel’s phone, I was sort of thinking if we could scrap that part.”

“Oh.” Sam takes a sip from his cup. It tastes surprisingly good. “But wait, why not?”

“It’s just, well, I feel like—”

“She’s getting cold feet because she has to get dolled up tomorrow if she executes that part of the plan.” Greta appears behind Darcy, holding a tray of unwashed cups and plates. Sam hurries to assist her, but she only waves him away. “You are a guest here,” she tells Sam. “You sit there and enjoy your coffee.”

Sam gingerly obliges and returns to his seat.

Meanwhile, Darcy groans a clear sound of frustration. “Mum, you know this is not a case of cold feet—”

“Oh, don’t you dare lie to me, Jane.” Greta is smiling cheekily. She sets the tray down in the sink. “And not in front of Samuel, too.”

Sam tries to bite back his laughter watching their exchange but fails miserably that it comes out as a lame cough. “Wait, is that true?” He looks at Greta then at Darcy. 

“Well, sort of.” Darcy frowns, toying with her necklace again. Sam has observed Darcy has the tendency to do this whenever she seems in deep thought or if she is struggling to find the words to say next. He has spent too much time with her that Sam is strangely vexed how he is beginning to understand the smallest twitch, the slight quirk of her lip, the tiniest shift in her eyes.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” she says after a hesitant pause.

_“Por favor,_ Samuel, don’t believe her,” Greta says as she begins to wash the dishes. The rush of water slightly muffles her voice. “We have tons of things in Emma’s closet that she can wear but she refuses to try them on.”

“Hey, maybe I can help you choose something?” Sam suddenly offers. God forbid he doesn’t why he just did that, but he even follows it up like the fool that he is and says, “I promise to pick something modest.”

Darcy looks confused and doesn’t know what to say that in the span of that pause, Greta twists the faucet shut and turns to face them both. 

“You know, that’s actually a lovely idea,” Greta tells Sam, her face awfully pleased. Then, to Darcy she says, “Why don’t you accept Samuel’s offer and end your misery?”

Darcy sighs, exasperated. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She narrows her eyes at Sam, awfully dubious. “And what can you possibly know about formal womenswear?”

“Oh, Jane. You seem to be forgetting that I’ve been living with a nine-year-old girl who’s starting to obsess with fashion magazines. So yes, maybe I do know a little thing or two about women’s fashion.” 

Sam doesn’t admit that often, but it’s true. Ever since Victor took Leti in, there hasn’t been a dull day in their little apartment in Queens, and best believe that he and Nathan have been taking Leti to Macy’s shopping for her clothes. Or even just window shopping. Victor admits he knows jackshit about girls’ apparel, so he merely finances their shopping trips with Leti. (“You young’uns get on with the trends better than I do,” Victor would always say.) And as far as Leti’s current wardrobe is concerned, she always prefers Sam’s choices rather than Nathan’s, so Sam feels pretty confident about this. 

Kind of. 

Darcy crosses her arms, her face now twice as doubtful. “I don’t quite believe you.”

“Of course you don’t believe me. You never do.” Sam smiles wryly. “Look,” he says, “if it makes you feel comfortable, we’ll even call Leti and get her approval.”

Darcy considers Sam for a moment. She bites her lip, drums her fingers against the countertop. “Alright, fine.” She gives Sam a small, agreeable nod. To Greta, she says, “You wouldn’t mind if I take him to Emma’s room, then?”

“Honestly, _mija,_ I wouldn’t mind if you take Samuel to your own bedroom—“

_“Mum.”_

“I’m only joking,” says Greta impishly, wiping her hands in a nearby tea towel. “Go on ahead. I’ll tell your sister you borrowed one of her clothes. And Leticia is with Victor at the moment.”

Darcy leads Sam upstairs, and they stop over Victor’s room at the end of the hall to pick Leticia up. She is already dressed in her pink pajamas and is about to go to sleep, but when Sam explains the situation to her—something she immediately deems as a fashion emergency, as it were—and she learns of his plan to choose a dress for Darcy, she beams like a kid about to go to a candy store. 

“I know I said it’s okay for you to _not_ like Sammy,” Leti tells Darcy, “but I promise he has good fashion sense for a boy.”

Sam frowns. “I’m sorry, you told her _what?”_

Leti sticks her tongue out, throws him a cheeky grin for good measure. He does not even manage to pick up the pieces of his betrayed ego when Darcy is already leading Leti down the other side of the hall.

Inside Emma’s room, Darcy wastes no time to open her sister’s closet. Sam can already tell how different Darcy is from her sister with all the silk and tulle and lace hanging in an orderly and brightly colour-coded row. Organizing things to pristine perfection must be a Kingsley brand, Sam decides. The clothes transition from crimson red to pastel pink, from deep sapphire to baby blue. Leti, on the other hand, is lost browsing at all the layers of garment and gradient before her. She is feeling every fabric between her fingers with so much amazement. Then, turning to Darcy, she asks, “How come you don’t like any of this pretty stuff?”

Darcy chews on her bottom lip, fiddling again with her necklace. “I don’t think I’d look good in colour,” she says sheepishly. “And besides, I prefer darker ones. Emma doesn’t have much of those.”

Sam lifts a suspicious brow. “Huh. Are you sure?” He zeroes in on a dress in a transparent bag on the far left corner. He takes it out of the closet and hangs it in front of Darcy for her to see. It’s a long, black dress made in part satin, part tulle. “And what do you call this one then?”

Darcy shakes her head. “Okay, no,” she says, “definitely not _that_ one because I don’t think I can pull off the neckline—”

“Darcy! You have to try this on!” Leti demands with an excited passion. “You said you wanted something dark, right? I’ll be the judge if it suits you or not. And I promise we won’t be showing Sammy once you fit the dress.”

Before Sam and even Darcy can object, Leti is already tugging her by the sleeve of her shirt and into the bathroom next door. 

And while waiting, Sam takes the time to look around Emma’s room. 

His mother used to tell him how you can know a lot about a person by the things you find in their room, and as far as what he can see in Emma’s room, Sam can deduce that she is fond of reading given the number of old and used books lining her shelves. There’s also a vintage turntable and a small collection of vinyl records, so Sam guesses she likes music, too. And then there are pictures on her desk, and to Sam’s pleasant surprise, he sees a photo of a young Darcy in braces with another young lady who happens to look a bit like her. That one must be Emma, he decides. Between them is a handsome man with his arms on both their shoulders, and Sam can tell by their eyes that it’s their father, Henry.

Sam sits on the only armchair in the room. Now he’s starting to wonder what Darcy’s room looks like.

A moment later, Leti returns with a triumphant look on her face.

“Sammy,” she says, beaming like a lighthouse by the doorway, “you picked the perfect dress! It’s good that you’re finally being nice to her.”

“Hey, I’m nice to her. I’ve never been _not_ nice to her.”

“That’s a lie.” She walks in, folds her arms over her chest. “And I don’t get why you keep pissing her off when you like her.”

Sam exhales a world-weary sigh. _Not this again._ “Look,” he says, dragging a hand over his face, “I swear to god, I have no idea why she’s so pissed at me, and also, whatever idea you have, that’s _not_ what’s going on here.”

“Then why would you help her choose a dress if you don’t like her?” 

“Because I was being nice, and I wanted to help her. Seriously, Leti Spaghetti, you watch way too many telenovelas.”

Leti glowers at him. “Don’t call me that,” she hisses. “And maybe you should try watching telenovelas, too, so you can have a little idea on how to treat a lady.”

Sam laughs. “Wow, okay, thanks for schooling me and for that wonderful advice—I’ll make sure to catch up on _Rosalinda_ with you when all of this is over. But before that,” he says, “where’s Jane? Can I see—“

“Nope, no way.” Leti raises both her hands before Sam can step outside. “I promised Darcy. Don’t be a party pooper and ruin the surprise.”

Not before long, Darcy appears by the doorway back in her casual clothes with the dress back in its storage bag. She is followed by Victor, who appears to be ready to remind Leti that it’s already way past her bedtime. Leti does not object, claiming that she has already accomplished her mission, and on her way out, she even tells Darcy, “You’re going to look really beautiful tomorrow, I promise.”

And just like that, Sam and Darcy are alone in Emma’s room.

“She’s awfully energetic, isn’t she?” she says almost to herself. She hangs the dress back in the closet.

Sam nods, smiles. “That’s Leti for you. And what did I say? I told you she’d approve of my choice.”

“Yeah, okay.” Darcy smiles fondly. “I believe you now. I just wish I could channel my sister’s confidence to pull off that dress.”

“Hey, I’m sure you’d be fine.”

“I hope so.”

“You nervous? About what we’re going to do tomorrow?”

“A little. Maybe.”

An uncomfortable silence settles between them. He catches her glance, but she lowers her eyes.

“Can I ask you something?” Sam asks after the strange pause.

“Um, sure.”

“How come you’re so… you’ve been so hard on us, me and Nathan?” he asks as cautiously as he could, careful not to stray into delicate terrain. “Or maybe just me now, because you seem to be getting along with Nathan just fine.”

Darcy says nothing and averts her eyes as Sam looks at her. It is then, in that shift in her eyes, that Sam finally understands why.

_I should have known._

“You looked us up.” The way the words leave him is cold and empty. 

Darcy finally fixes her eyes on him, unflinching. “Yes, I did,” she admits. “I had to be cautious. You know I have to. But now I—”

“Oh no, it’s fine, it’s perfectly _fine,_ ” Sam snaps, waving a scornful hand. _Of course._ Of course she would have looked them up. No wonder she had been acting that way ever since they first met, but he never thought that being judged poorly by this woman would wound him this much. 

“But hey, can you enlighten me, please?” says Sam, trying to temper the grit in his voice. “What did you find out about us?”

“All the robberies. Every single time you two have been in jail. The string of women. Pretty much a lot, actually.” 

“Right, right, right.” Sam paces around the room, seething. He takes a deep breath. “So that’s why you decided to pass your judgment and you’ve been so shitty to us. Is that it?”

“That’s not—”

“Well, you might want to work on your people skills because that’s not how you get to know a person, Jane.” 

Darcy scoffs. Her face hardens into a fury. “Oh, that’s just lovely,” she spits out. “Do explain to me how I’m supposed to get to know a person. I would really love to hear advice from someone who cannot seem to stop talking about himself and his criminal exploits for one fucking second like a self-absorbed prick that he’s already proven to be!”

“Wow, a self-absorbed prick? So that’s what you think of me? Thank you so much for sharing that important information. And this is coming from someone who relies on her prejudiced opinion of others based on what she finds on the Internet and doesn’t even give a shit of a chance to get to know people properly!”

“Well, maybe if you haven’t been such an utter arrogant bastard in person I would’ve done that and I would’ve liked you better!”

“Then fine—Saint Jane, I promise to be good! Is that what you fucking want to hear?”

Sam stares at Darcy and all at once he does not remember how they got here, or how a well-meaning question has spiraled into this, but as he stands there towering over her, his face almost close to hers, his body within the proximity of her perfume, the warmth of her breath, the menace of her painfully blue eyes, he slowly realizes the imminent danger. He begins to recognize it when he finds himself staring at her mouth, just as she is staring at his. He hears her breath hitch. The silence aches. It takes every ounce of his body to keep himself from doing something foolish that when Darcy finally steps back, it feels as if something inside him has been slammed back down to earth.

“Good talk, Samuel,” she says curtly as she rips her gaze away from him, leaving him alone in the night.

* * *

Inside the Great Hall of Hampton Court Palace, Sam is sitting by his lonesome at the cocktail bar, nursing his third glass of whiskey, watching as people in fancy clothes flock in from the entrance. More or less, there are at least a hundred people in attendance. There are men in black suits stationed everywhere, and if Sam didn’t know any better, he would have assumed they are part of the festivities. It is easy to spot the holstered guns if one strays close enough to any of them. It is strange to see that in a room of such historical importance—a hall that still reeks its sweet, medieval opulence in its walls and tapestries—can hold such a modern and dangerous affair. Everyone seems so out of place. So out of time. It is said that William Shakespeare and his company of actors often graced these halls and performed here more than once for James I, who is quite fond of hosting the most expensive and elaborate theatre shows ever staged at an English royal court. Royal residents dined here. Kings and queens entertained dignitaries, celebrated with courtiers in this very room. Now, the hall hosts a whole charade of a charity gala to cater to high-class crooks and rich-ass snobs and trust fund brats all dressed to the nines.

Sam tosses down the rest of his whiskey. He keeps an eye out on the entrance as more people in their lavish clothing are coming in. Roaming servers continue to circulate champagne flutes and trays of canapés to all guests. Somewhere, a piano serenades the room with a strange and mellowed version of Franz Schubert’s _Minuet in E Major._ The air is crisp with Chardonnay and luxury and bad intentions. 

He goes on to scan the faces in the room. There are many people now much to his discomfort, and he has yet to spot their person of interest. But when his attention falls to a gaggle of exquisitely dressed women in the middle of the ballroom, he finally finds him in the middle of their wild, cheery cackle.

Gabriel Roman looks exactly the same in the photo Nathan has shown him, but in person, he seems less daunting and a little more annoyingly charming. Now that he has his sights on this son of a bitch, there’s only one more problem left.

The only thing that remains to be done now is the bug.

And there is still no sign of Darcy.

_Ah, fuck._

Of course, it is too late to regret the horrible conversation he had with her last night, so there’s no point in sulking over spilled milk. He only hopes that Darcy hasn’t bailed on him after what happened. 

But he wouldn’t be surprised if she does. 

Just then, his earpiece crackles to life. 

_“Nate here. How are things on your end?”_

Sam acts casual, gives a nod at the bartender before he turns away. “Jane’s not here yet,” he says. “How about you and Victor?”

_“We already have the painting.”_

“Holy shit, that was fast.”

_“Well, we’re lucky most of the guards were complete idiots.”_ A pause and a hiss of static. _“Hey, don’t worry. Darcy should be there any minute.”_

“How can you be so sure? She might as well have bailed on us—”

_“Don’t be stupid. Victor and I just saw her on our way out of storage. So fair warning, don’t be surprised when you see her.”_

“Nathan, why the fuck would I be surprised… _oh.”_

He knows how things going in slow motion only happens in movies and telenovelas, but the moment his eyes fall on her, that precise second he sees her, it awfully feels like time has stopped. The clock has refused to tick forward. And there she is, standing by the entrance in a long, black dress in a plunging neckline that he failed to consider before, her gaze finds him and she smiles. 

And so as Sam watches Darcy enter the room, it is that very instant his heart betrays him. Perhaps this would not have been the case had he not chosen this particularly elegant black dress for her to wear for the evening. He was a fool to even think that she wouldn’t look _this_ beautiful in it. Not that he didn’t see Darcy as anything less than beautiful. In spite of her stubbornness and her snarky, sharp-tongued wit that never fails to wound his ego, Darcy is beautiful in a way that a rose has its thorns, except those thorns are always ready to slit a man’s throat and bleed them dry.

And it is for this very reason why Sam struggles to figure out the sudden, bizarre feeling in his chest. It was only days ago that he had decided to hate this woman for as long as he would live. It was only last night that they have messily aired out their grievances to each other. But now— 

“Hello,” she says, looking up at him and her velvety red lips curl into a smile. If she still harboured some form of ill will against him after all the things he had said the previous night, Darcy hides it well. As she always does. “I must say, you do clean up nicely.”

“Um, thanks. You look… really nice, too.” _Shit._ Sam smiles a bit lamely—he cannot seem to help himself at this point—and nods. He tries not to stare at her for too long, but he is failing quite spectacularly. _She looks like a dream to me,_ he thinks to himself. _She looks like a dream and I want to make her mine._

“Hey, um—” Sam stuffs his hand inside the pockets of his trousers, shifting a bit nervously— “about what I said last night—”

“It’s fine.” Darcy purses her lips, shrugs. She is absently toying with her pendant. “You had a point and I deserved that,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Sam reaches for the back of his head. “Well, I… uh, apology accepted.” He pats her on the shoulder. _Why the fuck did I pat her on the shoulder, for Christ’s sake?_ “And I’m sorry, too. I get why you had to do that.”

Darcy shakes her head. “Let’s put that all behind us, Samuel. Especially when we’ve got bigger fish to fry tonight, so to speak.”

“Of course.” He nods, offers her an arm. “So,” he says, smiling, “let’s get this show on the road, Jane.”

The next thing happens like clockwork, so smooth and easy. Just before the auction begins, Sam and Darcy strike a conversation with Gabriel Roman, who really doesn’t seem much of a crime lord but a rather amiable fellow who just genuinely loves art and history. Darcy does an excellent job of distracting him as she steers their discussion to Van Gogh and Monet and Gauguin, and before she can even introduce a new subject, Sam already signals her to stop. The man keeps his phone in his back pocket, thank his luck, and he lifts it cleanly in no time. They excuse themselves briefly, telling they’ll be getting drinks, and Darcy quickly and discreetly inserts a tiny, circular button inside the phone. She hands it back to Sam, who slips the phone back to Gabriel’s back pocket, while bringing him his order of gin and tonic. 

And just like that, the deed is done.

Well, kind of. They still have to leave this godforsaken room and regroup with the others.

But just as they are both heading for the exit, Darcy grinds to a halt beside Sam. He turns to her and he sees that her face has paled.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

The look on her face changes from tensed to relaxed to bright and happy in a split second. She swiftly takes his hand, laces her fingers with his, and she pulls a really forced smile. “Samuel,” she says his name sweetly and it almost disarms him, “can I ask you something?”

He cannot even process that he is holding her hand right now that he just stammers, “Uh, what is it?”

“On a scale of one to Oscar-worthy, how good of an actor are you?” 

Sam throws her a suspicious look. “What’s going on?”

“My ex is here.”

“Whoa, whoa—I’m sorry, _what?”_

“I promise to explain later,” she says quickly, “but right now I need you to act as if you’re in love with me and pretend to be my boyfriend for a second.”

Sam blinks. “Wait—”

Before Sam could even ask for an explanation, a tall, raven-haired man in a tasteful black tux approaches him and Darcy. The features of his face are striking with that brown eyes and a sharp jawline, but something about his excruciatingly dashing and dimpled smile is awfully menacing. Sam suddenly feels the need to punch this guy in the face. If it’s because of the fact that Darcy dated this handsome son of a bitch or just because he looks like a smug asshole, he cannot decide yet.

“Long time no see, Darcy,” the man says in a thick Spanish accent. “Didn’t expect to see you here of all places.” He looks at Sam for a quick moment, and then back at Darcy. It’s as if this man has decided with one look that Sam is not worthy of his attention. “And so I see you’re with a friend—”

“Boyfriend.” Sam loops an arm around her waist, pulls her close, even leans in to press a kiss on her cheek. If she is going to kill him later for this, then so be it. She asked him to play the part and he shall deliver. 

To his relief, Darcy plays along and wraps an arm around his waist, too. “So,” she says, “what are you doing here, Javier?”

“Oh, no more nicknames now for me, I see,” says this irritating guy named Javier. Even his name is fucking handsome. “Look, I didn’t mean what happened to us and I’m sorry.”

Darcy scoffs and throws him a cutting look. “Really? You didn’t mean to cheat on me with a friend of mine? How interesting.”

Now Sam wants to deck this guy hard on the face.

Javier clears his throat. “Well, anyway,” he says, rubbing a hand on his stubbled jaw, “to answer your question, _mi amor,_ I’m actually here on business with Mr. Roman. And as someone who handled his guest list, I’m confused that I’m seeing you here because I know for a fact that you two weren’t invited.”

Darcy’s grip around Sam tightens. “What on earth are you talking about? We have the invite.”

“Oh, you mean the invite you had Lola made for you so you two could get in?” Javier smiles. Sam does not even know what to respond because how on earth did this guy know about that—

All at once, two massive men in black suits are standing right by his side, and Sam can sense that there are more just right behind him and Darcy. 

“Well,” says Javier, “I still have to attend to an important business here, so I’ll have my friends take you to a nice room so we can all bond later. I’m especially keen to know more about your boyfriend, Darcy. Didn’t really expect you’d ever take interest to a thief, let alone someone like Mr. Samuel Drake.”

Sam and Darcy exchange a glance. They both say nothing as they are escorted by three men out of the hall and into god knows where.


	4. Darcy Kingsley

The guards leave William III’s bedchamber, and as they lock the door behind them, the soft thud it makes is good enough to signal Darcy to finally figure out her next move. She has to think _fast._ She feels utterly stupid for overlooking something so fucking trivial and she could only hate herself fot it. She also feels like panicking and dry heaving onto the royal parquet floor but there is no time for that now. All her backup plans have unfortunately failed to cover the probability of running into her devious and cheating ex-boyfriend and so she is obligated to fix this bloody mess. 

Seriously. Of all the people she had to see tonight, it really had to be that son of a bitch.

Darcy exhales a long, exasperated breath. She scans around the room, finds all the security cameras. She approaches the nearest one by the door and tries to reach the others through her earpiece, but of course, just her luck, she cannot come through. Static rings through her ears. There is no signal in this part of the palace. _Shit._ She paces back and forth, one hand curling to a fist, the other reaching for her pendant, twisting it between nervous fingers. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor sounds a little like the erratic beating of her heart. Or that of a menacing ticking of a clock that tells her to _hurry up, think, think, think_ —

“In the meantime, now that we’re all alone,” Samuel begins, casually unhooking the stanchion ropes, taking a seat on one of the velvet chairs before Darcy could warn him that he cannot possibly sit on it, “you promised me an explanation.”

Darcy stops and stares at Samuel. She opens her mouth to speak, but falters. She cannot decide if she should begin her explanation about her ex, or the fact that her idea of improvisation to avoid said ex was by asking Samuel to pretend to be her fucking boyfriend.

_What the bloody fuck was I thinking earlier?_

“Well, where do I start—“ she coughs slightly, squeezes her hands together. “I mean—I know how ridiculous my favour was and I—”

“It’s fine.” Samuel shrugs, waves a hand. “As your fake boyfriend, I’m really interested to know more about Javier. Gotta know more about my fake girlfriend’s ex, yeah?”

Darcy narrows her eyes at him, crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, I’m very much enjoying this.” Samuel nods, and he is smiling at her with that stupid smile of his. It vexes her, whenever he does this. Every time he smiles at her, it’s as if something wicked and awful twists at the pit of her stomach. 

Darcy clears her throat. “Fine. Okay.” She smooths the non-existent creases on her dress. “Well, Javi—I mean, Javier,” she says, “we worked together on a couple of occasions. I used to find information for him. Police activity, stock market trends, intel about their rival cartels. That sort of thing.”

Samuel channels the whole sentence _Are you kidding me?_ and turns it into a look. “A rival _cartel?_ This guy’s a drug lord?”

“Technically, not yet. His father is still the head honcho of Santa Blanca, so—”

“Holy shit.” Now the expression on Samuel’s face is one that has morphed from _Are you kidding me?_ to something that clearly says, _Are you out of your goddamn mind?_ “Your ex is Antonio Bernal’s _son?”_

Darcy raises a curious brow. That is not exactly the response she was expecting. “So you know of them?”

“Not personally, no. Which is why I’m surprised he knows me. Heard a lot about them during one of our gigs in Colombia, though. Nate almost got into trouble with one of their men until Victor helped him out.” He sits forward, runs a hand through his hair, lets it rest at the back of his neck. “But wow, never would’ve thought they’re also operating here in London.”

“They’re expanding their territories. At least, that’s what I heard. Besides, they’re also running the largest winery in the country, so it really won’t be difficult for them to hide their main trade in plain sight.”

“Oh, drugs and alcohol. How convenient.” 

“Very much so.”

Samuel rises out of his seat and walks over to her. “And so, if I may ask,” he says, “how exactly did you meet this guy?”

Darcy hesitates a little. She has never really found it comfortable to share parts of her personal life with anyone she does not genuinely know, but for some reason, Samuel creates a certain air of sincerity that is neither daunting nor disagreeable. Well, this is not new to her anymore. She has seen him make an effort time and time again to get to know her, an effort she has callously dismissed over the last few days.

She never should have done that. The guilt returns tenfold, slices like a knife in her gut. She truly regrets having treated him so unfairly.

“I met him in my lit class,” she says sheepishly. “He’s really agreeable. Most of the girls in my year find him charming because he writes poetry for the school paper. And to be fair, when he came to me, I thought he’s just another fellow who somehow found out what I was doing on the side.”

“And by ‘doing on the side,’ you mean all this hacking stuff.”

“Yes. And his requests from me at first were pretty much normal. Like retrieving a lost file. Or going through records to find personal information about a missing person. But when he finally asked me to look into Tijuana and Sinaloa, it was then that I figured it out. And then he told me everything.”

“Of course.” Samuel gives her a curious look. “But can I just ask though, like… of all the things you can be involved in, how come you didn’t just do stuff like—I don’t know—maybe getting answer keys to tests? Manipulating your grades?”

This gets Darcy to laugh despite her nerves. “Tempting, but no,” she says. “I try to keep my school and work life completely separate. Besides, those things aren’t even that challenging and there’s little money in it for me, so I choose not to do it at all.”

“Huh. Interesting.” He stares at her. “So. Does Greta know about this?”

“Yeah. How do you suppose we can afford to live in a house like that?”

“Oh. I see.” Samuel nods thoughtfully. “Right.”

A strange silence falls in their midst. As Samuel drifts to the window overlooking the illuminated Privy Garden, Darcy looks around the room again. For the second time, she attempts to reach the others through her earpiece, but no such luck. _Fuck._ _Think, Darcy, think._ How could she get them out of this? All doors are guarded. The only window is fastened shut, and if they even manage to open it, they would simply fall into their deaths. Or end up with broken legs. She gazes up at one of the cameras, this time the one atop the ornately-chiseled fireplace, hoping that at least Charlie or Nathan could see her. Up on the richly painted ceiling, Verrio’s _Endymion in the Arms of Morpheus_ depicts the Greek god of dreams and sleep in the company of angels. It’s one of her favourite works of art in the entirety of Hampton Court. Strange how this piece now bears witness to her silent cry for help.

Samuel takes a seat on the windowsill, fiddling with what seems to be a tiny flashlight in his hand. “So,” he says, “you don’t think Lola—“

“No,” says Darcy sharply, darting him an equally sharp look. She knows what Samuel is about to insinuate. “If you think Lola would sell us out, you’re very much mistaken. They know each other, sure, but Lola hates Javi. She doesn’t give a fuck if Javi is part of a cartel or a mafia. She’d sooner skin him alive than cooperate with him.”

“Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest that she did. It’s just...” He trails off, his face deeply perplexed. “It’s just—well, I’m just trying to understand how the hell he knew about us not being on the guest list, the invite—“

“I’m afraid he’s simply come to know well how I operate.” She pauses. For all the good Javi brought into her life in the period of their short-lived relationship, this marks the first time Darcy regrets all of it. She never should have let him in, never should have allowed _anyone_ to know her so intimately the way he did, feeling so bare and exposed with nothing left to hide. Now her past affair with him has returned to bite her in the ass. And because of it, she’s ended up compromising this entire operation they have worked life and limb to execute just because of her utter, irrevocable foolishness. 

Darcy squeezes her eyes shut. She expels a long, heavy sigh.

“Samuel, I…” she trails off, looking awkward, sad, embarrassed. “I’m really sorry about this. I swear I checked _everything._ The emails, the servers. Not one mention of Javi being here, all I know he was out of the country and had I known he’d be here, I would have been more careful and would have taken extra precautions so I’m genuinely sorry for messing this up, for getting you caught up in this because I had been so careless and _stupid—”_

“Whoa, hey, hey, hey—Jane. Look at me.” All at once Samuel is already standing right in front of her, his warm and calloused and steady hands holding her shoulders, his eyes searching hers with such searing concern that the gesture startles her. “You’re not stupid or careless and you did not mess anything up,” he says sternly. “This is just a small hiccup, and we are going to deal with Javier and we’re going to get out of here, do you understand me?”

Darcy blinks. She can only find herself nodding in response. She’s finding it difficult to formulate a proper reply when he is looking at her like that, her face literally a breath away from him, and there she is again, just like last night, she is once more caught in the haze of him, the comfort of his warmth, the soft scent of his familiar musky cologne that she can probably recognize anywhere by now, a fragrance that has seared itself inside her brain against her will, that even if she is in a room full of people, she would know in a heartbeat that he is nearby, that it’s him, it’s him, it’s _him._

“And Jane?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re the smartest woman I’ve ever had the chance to work with,” he says resolutely. “So never _ever_ call yourself stupid because you’re far from it.”

Darcy stares at him. “Um, thank you,” she says, unable to hold his gaze any longer when she feels the heat rising in her cheeks. _I’ve been so unkind to him,_ she thinks helplessly to herself, _and here he is, offering me nothing but kindness. God, what a bloody awful person I’ve been._

Samuel smiles. “Don’t mention it,” he says, patting her arm. “I just need you to relax, okay?”

A frown slightly wrinkles her face. “How come you can be so awfully calm and confident at this time?” 

“I don’t know. I’ve been in too many dangerous situations and as far as I’m concerned, this doesn’t count as one,” he explains. “So for now, I need you to trust me on this—“

“Am I interrupting a moment here?”

The doors slam open, and Javi enters the room accompanied by two tall men in black suits. The men stand by the door, while Javi approaches them in slow, casual strides, sizing them both up like a predator studying its prey.

Javi clicks his tongue, looks at Darcy then at Samuel with a disapproving shake of his head. “I still can’t believe you replaced me with an American,” he says. “And Samuel Drake at that.”

“And I still can’t believe that I need to remind you _again_ that you fucking cheated on me, you bloody asshole,” Darcy parries sharply. She can feel the venom seeping at the tip of her tongue. “Stop this bullshit and just tell me what the fuck do you want.”

Javier winces. “Fine. Actually, what I want is for just the two of us to talk, but I’d set that aside for later.” He circles them both, pushing both his hands in his pockets. “What I really want from you two now is to tell me what business brought you here. With all the tons of artifacts and antiques up on auction, I can’t decide what you two are after.”

Darcy and Samuel trade a quick, knowing glance. For some reason, she immediately understands what it means.

_He doesn’t know we’re after the painting._

“The Chimera of Arezzo,” answers Samuel after the strained pause. “The Etruscan artifact from Florence. I was planning to steal it for my Jane—I know how much she loves Greek mythology—and I wanted to it for her—“

“And I wanted to see him in action, so here we both are.” Darcy smiles agreeably to swiftly conceal her surprise. _How did he even know I’m into Greek mythology?_

“How romantic,” Javier says flatly. “Bonnie and Clyde completing each other’s sentences.”

Samuel flashes that cocky smile of his. “That’s a nice way of putting our relationship, isn’t that right, babe?” He takes Darcy’s hand in his, lacing his fingers through hers, and presses a kiss at the back of her hand. 

“Never really thought about it that way, but yes,” says Darcy, returning the sudden display of fake affection with her own sweet saccharine smile to keep herself from being too flustered. _This is my goddamn idea and now I’m beginning to regret it._ She leans into his arm, loops it around her shoulder. _Two can play this game, damn you._

Meanwhile, the expression on Javier’s face is one of bitter contempt. It is glorious.

“Now,” says Samuel, “is that all you want to know? Because look, we’re not going to do it anymore since, well, you caught us.”

Javier looks at Darcy then at Samuel, and then back at Darcy. “Ah, _mi amor,_ why do I find this hard to believe? This isn’t your thing, Darcy. I know you—“

“No, you don’t know _me.”_ The sweet smile disappears from Darcy’s face and is swiftly replaced by seething fury. 

“Oh, but I do,” Javier insists. “I know you’re not the type to condone stealing things. You’re too lawful for things like that. You’re the type to use your skill for social justice, disrupting corrupted institutions like the stunt you pulled with the stock exchange. So it now makes me wonder why this guy—“ he throws a cutting look in Samuel’s direction— “and a woman of your caliber could ever begin working together. Especially after what happened to your dear father. Wasn’t he murdered by a thief? And now, such a pity you’re sleeping with one—“

“Okay, buddy, you are going way too _far.”_ Darcy does not even manage to say another word as Samuel moves to stand between her and Javier, gritting his teeth, already getting up on his face. All at once, Javier’s men pull out their pistols, all pointing at Samuel. Darcy grabs Samuel by his wrist, as if to beg, _Don’t do this, you idiot._

“Put down the guns, _amigos,”_ commands Javier, gesturing a hand. “That will not be necessary tonight.” Then he turns his attention to Samuel. “I have to say, your boyfriend is very brave,” he tells Darcy, his sharp gaze not leaving Samuel. _“Pero él no es para ti—“_

_“Ya basta de hablar, pendejo,”_ Samuel spits out, and in one swift motion, his fist lands square on Javi’s face.

What follows is a blurry, bloody mess. One of the guards holds Darcy back as two big and burly men enter the room. Samuel fights back, quick on his feet—he is certainly quite a brawler, Darcy can see that now—but he is soon overpowered when Javi clobbers him at the back of his neck. The other men drag a staggered Samuel to his feet, locking his arms with theirs. Javi fishes out a sharp brass knuckle and slips it in one hand. He wastes no second to beat the shit out of Samuel, kicking and punching without any form of restraint. Darcy is forced to watch and listen. Her helplessness parches her throat dry. She begs for Javi to stop but he does not pay her any mind. _You don’t deserve him,_ he only tells her. Blood drips down the carpets. The thundering crack of every blow and punch is a sickening echo that occupies the room. 

But then the guard by the door crumples to the ground like a wilted plant. One of the massive men hauling up Sam follows suit. Then his companion. And another more. And then the guard holding Darcy. 

In an instant, everyone else is unconscious except for Darcy, Javi, and Samuel who has already curled on the floor.

As Javi is visibly baffled by the turn of events, a rush of cold and blinding rage consumes Darcy that the next thing she does takes her by surprise: she marches up to Javi, delivers a good kick in the crotch that makes him sink on his knees, and quickly knocks him out with a solid punch in the face. A startling pain shoots in her right hand but she does not flinch. She kicks him again. _You had no right to bring up my father._ And again. _You had no right to hurt Samuel like this._ And again. She takes off her heels, ready to stab his skull with the pointed end but then she hears Samuel groan, says in an almost whimper, _Don’t do it, Jane._

Behind her, a firm hand catches her arm.

“Darcy, stop.”

She freezes. She turns and sees Nathan, and he is looking at her with a strange expression on his face, one that seems to blend worry and concern and fear altogether.

Darcy quickly sobers from her sickening, murderous thought. She stares at her hands, mortified by her actions. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she mutters stiffly. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—“

“Hey, it’s okay.” Nathan smiles. He claps a comforting hand over her shoulder. “It’s okay now."

"Are they dead?"

"No. It's all thanks to your tranquilizer gun. Now c’mon.”

They both rush to Samuel’s side, carefully pulling him up with Darcy hooking his arm around her shoulder while Nathan takes the other. Up close, she can see how his face has been badly bruised, all swollen pink and purple. And yet, despite his state, he still manages to exhale a small laugh.

“You really did him good, Jane,” he says with a weak smile as they stagger out of the room. “Remind me never to piss you off ever again.”

* * *

“Here you go.”

Darcy hands Samuel a freezing bag of green peas as she sets down her first aid kit, a small basin, and a bottle of cold water over by the bedside table. She draws the curtains up, opens the windows of the guest room to let the chilly breeze drift in. Outside, the sky is clear and cloudless. The cicadas are singing a shrill, relentless noise. It has been quite a long and exhausting night.

Samuel sits uncomfortably at the edge of the bed, setting the peas aside for a while as he awkwardly shoulders off his coat. “Jane,” he says feebly, “go get some rest. Nathan will help me with this. I’m fine—“

“No, you’re not,” she says firmly. “And Nathan’s already passed out on the couch, so you won’t be expecting his help.” She takes her box of medical supplies and sits right next to him, careful to maintain a decent space between them. “God, you look…”

Samuel presses the bag of peas back in his face. He is smiling despite his split lip and bruises. “Handsome? Charming? Completely irresistible?”

Darcy rolls her usual dose of eyerolls that she has now reserved solely for Samuel. “Glad to know you didn’t lose your wits back there.” She grabs a small, wooden stool nearby, sets down the basin, pours cold water onto it. Then she unpacks a clean cloth from her kit and soaks part of it into the water. “You know,” she says, “if having a battered face is now the renewed standard of men’s beauty, then upon my word, you must be the fairest of them all.”

“Then I suppose I ought to keep these cuts,” he happily ripostes. “I’ll treat these as my badges of honour.”

Darcy shoots him a sharp and pointed look. “Will you just let me clean it? Your shirt is also a bloody mess. Literally.”

“Fine, fine.” Samuel sighs. “Wait, let me just—“ he unbuttons his white shirt, peels it off, and quickly hangs it over the bed frame— “there.”

Darcy finds her gaze wandering from his abdomen, his arms, his chest. He’s lean and nicely built, she can see that much, but she can also see now how badly hurt he is. His body is like a canvas of an Impressionist painter with all his cuts and bruises. She begins to wonder what his skin is like without all this colour. She studies him with clinical concentration that she hardly notices that Samuel is watching her curiously. He smiles. 

“Jane?”

“Yeah?”

“Eyes up here.”

Darcy looks up at Samuel, slightly startled. “Oh. Sorry.” She jerks back a little. “Yes. I, uh—Javi really did a number on you,” she says, sounding a bit strained. “I’d make sure to bring a couple more cold compresses later on.”

Samuel shakes his head, still wearing an amused smile on his swollen face. “And here I thought you were checking me out.”

Darcy says nothing and she only gives him a look that says, _Don’t be so full of yourself._ She sits a little closer to him. Carefully, she dabs the damp cloth on the side of his mouth.

He winces. _“Ow_ —sheesh, be a little gentle with me, please?”

“But I am being _gentle.”_

He laughs. “I was kidding. It didn’t really hurt.”

“Don’t make me add another bruise on your face.”

“Sorry.” He straightens a bit like a petulant child who finally decides to behave. “Please go on.”

Darcy dabs the cloth back to where the cut is on the side of his mouth. Samuel looks away, tries to fix his eyes elsewhere. He adjusts the bag of peas and presses it closer to his swollen left eye. She draws closer, continues to clean the ones on the side of his cheek, the bridge of his nose, his right eyebrow. The faint scent of his cologne still lingers, Darcy observes. This makes her smile to herself.

Samuel noisily clears his throat. “So,” he says, his voice beginning to sound a little hoarse, “you’re not going to tell me how I shouldn’t have interfered with you and Javier earlier? How I shouldn’t have fought your battles for you?”

Darcy gives him a one-shoulder shrug. “Well, I could,” she says, wiping the cut on his forehead. “But you don’t need a verbal beating when you’re already like this.”

“Wow, that’s really very kind of you, Jane,” he says with a small laugh.

They sit in brooding silence for a moment. Darcy rinses the cloth, wrings the blood out in the basin that it taints the water pink. Outside, the rustle of trees join the cicadas in their song. Midnight hums.

“But I have to thank you, though,” she says after a while. “For what you did back there.” She pauses. She stares at the bloody cloth in her hand. “You’ve only ever been so kind to me, while I had been unfavorably awful to you—“

“Hey.” Samuel pats her lightly by the arm. “You said to put that behind us, right? Besides, I couldn’t—I mean, you...” He hesitates. He lowers his eyes, takes a deep breath. “You’re kind enough to put up with my bullshit, too.”

Darcy says nothing and smiles. They are quiet again, but this time around, the silence is lighter, bearable. 

She resumes to clean and cover his cuts, this time the ones scattered all over his chest. He may seem lanky, and he may not be so finely chiseled like a statue of a Greek demigod, but she can tell how he is certainly built with solid muscle. Flesh and bones made of sturdy and heavy materials polished by a religious workout regimen. No wonder he was able to endure Javi’s beating. Still, enduring violence is one thing. Just because one is strong enough doesn’t necessarily mean they are invulnerable to being hurt.

Samuel squirms a little. The melting ice from the bag of peas drips down his forearm. “Can I ask you something?”

Darcy does not look up. “Yeah?”

“Did… Did Javier ever hurt you? Like, physically?”

Darcy stops midway of treating the last cut near his shoulder. She stares at him. “No,” she says slowly, somewhat bewildered with the question. “Not at all. He never laid a hand on me. He had only been good to me until, well. I found out he was sleeping with someone else.”

Samuel exhales what Darcy can only interpret as a sigh of his relief. “That’s good to know. I mean, not about the cheating part of course,” he clarifies. “Because the thought of that asshole just…” he mutters almost to himself. He frowns, hands clenching into hardened fists.

“What’s the matter?”

His expression quickly softens. “Sorry, nevermind. I just…” He pauses, shakes his head. “Back there, you seem determined to hurt him.”

Darcy heaves a deep sigh. “Honestly, I don’t know what got into me that I thought about doing it,” she admits. “I was just… I was so, so angry at him.”

“For cheating on you?”

“Actually, no,” she says. “Because he hurt you.”

A strange pause. Before she could even realize what she had said, the words had already left her mouth. She did mean it. She just didn’t think she would ever speak of it aloud. She swallows. Now she regrets having revealed too much, and she wants to take her words back. The sinking feeling only worsens when Samuel does not even say anything. He is simply looking at her with an expression she cannot fully decipher. 

But then, in what seems to be like endless, ticking minutes, he takes her hand in his. He takes the cloth away and he drops it back to the basin. He carefully strokes the length of her damp palm with his thumb. Her skin is sullied with his blood. He doesn’t seem to mind it. She doesn’t seem to mind it, either, this gesture that is so strange and warm and delicate. Her chest is tight with a buzzing feeling. Her body and brain are conditioned for combat whenever she is within his radius, but here, in this moment, she has lowered all her weapons. Here, she is the path of least resistance. He holds her hand, lets it rest on his chest. She can feel the soft beating of his heart, the warmth of his skin on her fingertips. She finds herself looking at his mouth. He is looking at hers. 

When their eyes meet, Darcy pulls back. She tears her gaze away from him. 

“I should probably go,” she says quickly. She gets up, packs away all her things. “You ought to get some rest. I will ask Victor to bring you a proper cold compress.”

Samuel blinks. “Right. Um, thank you, Jane.”

Darcy nods and smiles stiffly. She hurriedly walks away, closing the door behind her, her hands still trembling with an aching need to return to him.

_The Belshazzar’s Feast_ is clearly one masterpiece to behold, Darcy decides, as she watches Victor and her mother set the canvas up the following morning in a makeshift easel in the study. She has seen it many times in her frequent visits to the National Gallery, but this is the first time she is seeing it without its intricately-designed frame. She still likes it. She can also see how Lola’s excellent copy can be undoubtedly mistaken for the real thing, but having studied these pieces since her father first introduced her to the painter’s works—and knowing how to distinguish fake pieces from the real ones—Darcy can easily spot the difference: the detailed and careful strokes are distinctly Rembrandt’s. A technique that can only be his. Lola’s piece, if one looks really close enough, is whimsical, playful, hurried. 

“So lads,” Charlie begins as he squeezes himself between Nathan and Samuel on the couch, “anyone brave enough to dismantle that thing and find what Henry’s been referring to?”

“That _thing_ is not going to be dismantled,” Darcy tells Charlie pointedly. The thought of even smearing the paint from it gives Darcy enough anxiety to last a whole year. “We won’t be getting the reward money if we return this in poor condition. Maybe we can find something behind the canvas.”

Victor shakes his head. “There’s nothing back here, I’m afraid,” he says. “Just a regular board. Nothing even plastered on it.”

“You think they’ve already taken it?” suggests her mother worriedly, sitting behind her desk. 

“I doubt it,” says Samuel. He props his elbows over his lap, steepling his hands in a way to concentrate. “Your husband’s note says it’s _inside._ So it has to be in there somewhere…”

A pensive pause lingers in the room. 

“Holy shit.” Samuel’s face brightens. He and Nathan trade a knowing glance. 

Darcy folds her arms over her chest, lifts a curious brow. Samuel looks at her, but she avoids his eyes. She looks only at Nathan. Between them, Charlie looks a little lost. 

“So what is it?” she asks Nathan.

“It’s _inside,”_ he says as he springs up from his seat and excitedly hurries to see the back of the canvas. Everyone gathers around him. Darcy watches him inspect the back of the painting, carefully tracing its edges.

And then it dawns on her.

“The backing board,” she tells Nathan. “The wooden wedges on the corner should help take it off.”

Nathan does as she says and the board in the canvas comes off. 

Sheafs of papers flutter onto the floor. An odd-looking, complex-shaped piece of wood with silver inlay drops and lands at Charlie’s feet.

“Fuck.” Charlie scrambles to pick it up with the help of Victor. Arranging it into a neat pile, they both hand it to Darcy. It’s a stash of random letters and notes and journal entries. She looks at everyone, and then at her mother. An expectant silence thrums.

“I think you should be the first one to read these,” she says, handing it to her mother.

They all watch eagerly as Greta sifts through the sheets. She paces around the study, flipping from one page to the next. Then her face pales. Her hand flies to cover her mouth. 

_“Dios mío,”_ she says, her expression deeply pained with disbelief as she sits heavily on the arm of the couch. “That foolish, foolish man.” 

Darcy rushes to her mother’s side. “Mum, what is it?”

Wordlessly, she gives Darcy the letters. Most of it are old journal entries and letters, and the one her mother recently read goes:

_Three parts to make a whole. I have hidden these parts of the key that should open the ruins to the First Temple. Jeremiah and a guilty St. Peter are my accomplices. One I leave with the treacherous Belshazzar. Its heart remains with me. And I cannot blame St. Peter for it because no one is supposed to find this place. Gold, tons of gold. The power it holds is too dangerous. God has spoken. No one on earth could ever possess it. And if you have been too curious to explore such a feat, best to quell the curiosity and leave this be._

_R_

Below the entry is a note scribbled in a neat handwriting that Darcy recognizes in an instant. It’s her father’s.

_Where could the other two be?_

_Jeremiah - Amsterdam_

_Peter - too many paintings? Either Amsterdam, Stockholm, Jerusalem_

“I told him not to pursue this,” says her mother mournfully. “He promised me. He knew the danger of chasing this myth but your idiot father… I can’t believe he did _this.”_

Darcy looks at her mother, then at the four men huddling around them. She is too baffled to process anything that she absently hands Nathan the notes for them to read as she tries to untangle the questions in her head. _What was Rembrandt up to? And what has my father got to do with this—_

“Holy mother of...“ Samuel drags a hand over his face as he reads some of the entries. “Your dad, he’s looking for the ruins of King Solomon’s temple.”

“According to the notes here, Rembrandt supposedly has hidden parts of the key,” adds Nathan.

Victor stares at the brothers, folds his arms over his chest. “But how on earth could he know about all this? He’s a painter, right? Besides, isn’t that place a myth? Most people believe it doesn’t exist.”

“Well, Sully, according to this entry here,” says Nathan, pointing at a specific page, “a merchant sold him an artifact—which I assume is this key he keeps talking about—and it led him to Jerusalem. And he barely managed to escape with his life.”

Samuel grins. “And guys, seriously. Undiscovered ancient place aside, the mention of gold doesn’t interest you?”

“You bet it does.” Nathan looks around. “So is there a key part that we dropped here somewhere or—“

“You mean this?” Charlie waves the piece of elaborately-designed wood in front of them. “This one of the parts?”

Victor laughs. “Well, I’ll be damned. Now we got two more to go then—“

“Now you all wait for just one bloody _moment,”_ Darcy cuts off their earnest chatter along with a sharp look. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand—King Solomon’s temple? The key? Can anyone explain to me here what’s happening?” She looks at her mother. “Mum, care to share?”

“Samuel’s right,” she admits. “Your father was looking for Solomon’s Temple. He and I... we went for an excavation trip in Jerusalem many years ago and discovered a journal that belonged to Rembrandt. He dedicated most of his life studying the painter, so that was a strange discovery for him. Eventually, it all led to... this." She sighs. "But I asked him to stop this nonsense and obviously he didn’t.” She turns to the men huddling before her. “And you lot seem to be just as foolish as Henry, eager to find this place now.”

“Greta,” says Samuel, “no offense to your obviously brilliant husband, but what are we if not fortune seekers?” Then to Darcy, he turns and smiles. “I guess this isn’t over for us just yet. I’m pretty sure it’d be a piece of cake for you to figure out which painting we have to find.”

Darcy stares at him and tries not to wilt from the memory of last night. And the night before that. Unfortunately for her, she is not rid of this man yet until this job is done, and so what choice does she have but to cooperate and endure his smug face?

“Can I see the entry again, please?” she says, holding out one hand.

Samuel returns a page to her. She reads it again, and with proper context this time, it only takes her one glance to decipher Rembrandt’s odd and cryptic journal entry along with her father’s notes.

“Rembrandt only has one painting of Jeremiah, so it has to be _Jeremiah Lamenting The Destruction of Jerusalem_ in Rijksmuseum,” Darcy says matter-of-factly. “The second one, considering how Rembrandt refers to Peter as _Saint_ Peter and a guilty one at that, my guess would be _St. Peter in Prison_ in the Israel Museum.”

“I guess it’s settled then,” says Nathan approvingly, clapping one hand over Samuel’s shoulder. “First stop: Amsterdam.”


	5. Sam Drake

People are talking about the news even in Amsterdam. 

Vondelpark is packed with tourists and locals alike, and from underneath the alder tree where he is sitting together with Nathan and Leti in this sweltering summer afternoon—both of them savouring their ice cream cones while having a heated debate on which telenovela they should watch next once they get back to the hotel—Sam cannot help but overhear the news blaring from a boombox owned by a group of teenage girls who are not even listening to the news but are busy playing another lively round of Jenga. _The famed Belshazzar’s Feast has been found,_ reports the radio host in his most modulated voice, _and the men responsible for the heist have been arrested as well._ Even an old man over at a nearby bench is reading a newspaper with the striking headline: _Rembrandt’s Piece Anonymously Returned To The National Gallery._ Meanwhile, the radio host drones on between spurts of static. _Infamous hacker Ghost is believed to be responsible for exposing… to the police… without agenda..._

Sam leans back against the tree trunk, absently fiddling with the disposable camera he just bought from a souvenir shop. _We did all of that,_ he thinks proudly.

It is quite difficult to look at this momentous feat without remembering the series of events over the past week that led them all here. Everything still feels so surreal. After Hampton Court and their subsequent discovery of what was truly behind Rembrandt’s masterpiece, what followed was a whirlwind of affairs that all seemed too good to be true. 

For instance, as what has already been circulated all over the news, the painting was finally restored to the gallery. Darcy made certain that it was their first order of business as soon as they retrieved all of Rembrandt’s letters and journal entries hidden inside his work. She also made certain that its return would occur under the cover of absolute anonymity to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. She never fully disclosed as to how she planned to achieve all of that, or how exactly they were going to claim the reward money if they were not going to come forward, but she achieved it all the same. 

The next day, an insane amount of money was deposited into their bank accounts. 

Now, the gallery did not exactly keep its side of the bargain. They only received half of the promised reward which left them thoroughly disappointed. Well, at least for a brief moment. In the case of Sam and Nathan, the money they got was still good enough to settle all their debts back in Queens, to pay all their overdue bills, to cover more than a year’s worth of rent, and to even set aside a college fund for Leti, and so as far as their finances were concerned, they couldn’t really complain. 

As for the reported arrest of the culprits behind the heist, Darcy was pretty much responsible for that. Thanks to the bug she had installed in Gabriel Roman’s phone, she managed to retrieve very pertinent information from his calls. One of which was information about the people he ordered to do the job. She did not even bat an eyelash when she sent that information to the authorities. Unfortunately, Gabriel Roman was not part of the unlucky bastards who suffered the consequences—which, of course, was not in any way surprising given the reach of his influence. Small wonder that the least he could do was to let his henchmen serve as his scapegoats and take the fall.

Another thing Darcy found out was this: Gabriel Roman is also looking for Solomon's Temple. It turns out he never really intended to put the piece up for auction in the first place; he is working with Javier to find Rembrandt’s letters, employing the rest of the Santa Blanca Cartel for his protection.

And now they are both on the move to find _them._ Charlie has been keeping tabs on them back in London, and says that the two are out for blood.

In any case, despite the imminent danger that their current circumstances present, Sam has to give credit where credit is due. Their collective effort to get the first part of this now extended job done would not have been successful—and not even the least possible—without Darcy’s help. Victor was right; they needed her. And they need her more than ever now that a murderous art collector and a vicious drug lord are close on their tail. If he were to be honest, he still finds himself equally surprised and impressed with Darcy’s involvement in these kinds of things. Sam has come to recognize her technical prowess, that much is true, but somehow, something about her bothers him. 

He cannot seem to get what Javier said about Darcy out of his mind. 

Though actually, Sam cannot get Darcy out of his mind _in general._ He thinks about her all the time now. And it really is hard not to think about her, not when he’s had the pleasure of watching the beautiful gears of her frighteningly brilliant mind at work. Not when he’s had the privilege to be taken care of by her, this woman who he had only thought to be cold and callous had somehow proved him wrong with the warmth and softness of her hands that took great care of his wounds, with her small smiles that spoke volumes of tenderness, how she had been generous to offer him her unfettered kindness despite his faults, and really, all he could think of is _Let me keep you, let me take care of you in return, I’ll be a perfect saint—_

Leti is waving a hand in front of his face. “Why are you smiling like that, Sammy?” She is grinning amusedly, not noticing that whatever’s left of her strawberry ice cream cone is melting and slowly dripping along the side of her fingers. “You’re thinking of Darcy again, aren’t you?”

The smile disappears on Sam’s face. Has he been that transparent? The thought of it is troubling to think about. “Of course not,” he says coolly. He offers Leti his handkerchief. “And please wipe your hands off, munchkin.”

Leti rolls her eyes and snatches his handkerchief away. She finishes off her ice cream cone in big bites. “I don’t get why you always lie about Darcy,” she says in between chews, then goes on to wipe the ice cream off the side of her mouth. “But don’t you worry, it’s not like you won’t see her tonight since you share a room with her, and so you should be able to look at her all night long—“

“Ha, that’s funny Leti Spaghetti,” says Sam, pinching her cheek. _“Really_ funny.”

She swats his hand away. “And you are _really_ annoying!” she hisses back, rubbing her cheek, and all at once, the annoyed look on her face shifts into that little, cheeky look she always has whenever she’s plotting something devious. “But it is true though.”

Sam scoffs. “What’re you talking about? I’m already sharing a room with you and Nathan.”

Leti says nothing and shrugs. She and Nathan exchange a look.

Sam looks at Leti, then at Nathan. “No. You two did _not_ just kick me out of the room.”

Nathan laughs. “Hey, don’t look at me, I didn’t do a thing—“

“I didn’t do a thing, either. Anyway,” says Leti, completely ignoring a still grumbling Sam and changing the subject altogether, “when are they coming back here? Do you think they got lost?”

“I doubt they'd ever get lost, kid,” Nathan tells Leti. “If it was just your dad, I guess it’s possible. But with both Darcy and even Greta there, we have nothing to worry about.” 

“I guess you’re right,” says Leti. “Mami Greta is pretty good with directions.” 

Leti’s endearment to Greta is no longer a surprise to both Sam and Nathan, just as they are not surprised to learn Greta’s decision to join them on this trip. Considering how her husband had been involved in this ridiculous puzzle of a job, small wonder she is keen to see this through with them. It’s a good thing, too, that she came along; she had a colleague in the Rijksmuseum that might help them out to whom she immediately reached out to as soon as they arrived in Amsterdam. She’s been on top of things ever since their arrival. She even took care of arranging their accommodation, and true to her warm and motherly fashion, she even checked on them this morning if they managed to grab a decent breakfast. She has been a steady, comforting presence at best. 

He keeps a mental note to speak to Greta about the matters relevant to his room arrangement. She could not have possibly agreed to what Leti had just said. 

Sam glances at his watch. It is already two o’clock. “Well,” he says, “Greta did say they might take some time. She mentioned her contact in the Rijksmuseum was a pretty difficult guy, so that discussion might be what’s keeping them.”

“I guess while we wait,” says Leti, getting up and dusting off the grass and dirt stuck in her yellow summer dress, “can I buy more ice cream for us?” She turns to Sam, then to Nathan. “Pretty please?”

Both Sam and Nathan hand her a euro. A huge, giddy grin brightens her face. She quickly swipes it off their hands before either of them could change their minds. 

And there she goes, runs off past tourists in their picnic mats scattered all over the grassy field and onto the pink ice cream truck parked not far from the candy-coloured tulips.

Not a moment later, Nathan pulls out his journal from his satchel. 

“By the way,” he says, “I’ve been doing a little digging on my own and...” He flicks to a certain page where he has clipped a copy of Rembrandt’s journal entry. He pauses, looks at Sam with an uncertain expression on his face.

Sam stares at Nathan, urging him to continue. “And?”

“Well, before I get to that, now that Leti’s out of earshot, I need you to be honest with me.”

“Be honest with you on what?”

Nathan throws a withering look. “Really? Don’t play dumb with me.” He slaps the back of his hand over Sam’s chest. “What really happened the other night with you and Darcy?”

Sam sighs. Thing is, he hasn’t exactly told Nathan everything there is to know about that night. Well, maybe except for the fact that it was worth mentioning how the drug lord jackass who beat him up happened to be Darcy's ex-boyfriend. Nathan found that rather amusing. But the rest of it—especially Sam pretending to be her boyfriend—was something he could never bear to tell his brother. Mostly because if Darcy found out that Nathan knew, Sam is as good as dead. 

“Like I said, nothing happened,” Sam insists adamantly, as if the entire story is a secret he intends to keep for the rest of his life. “She was the one who treated my cuts because _you_ fell asleep and left me with her. That was it.”

“I’m sorry. I was honestly dead tired when we got back.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re not really sorry about that.”

“And I’m pretty sure you were relieved that I fell asleep and she was the one who stayed with you.”

“Look, she left when she got me all patched up, so no, she didn’t stay.”

“But you wish she had.”

“No, I don’t.”

“But you sound thoroughly disappointed.”

“I don’t sound disappointed.” His tone is noncommittal. “Nay, I am _not_ disappointed at all.”

“Right, right, right.” Nathan nods, smiles impishly. “So, nothing really happened at all, huh.”

“I swear to god, _nothing_ happened,” Sam repeats dryly. He is absently plucking blades of grass from the ground that he has left a tiny, empty patch of earth before him. “Nothing is _ever_ going to happen, alright? So now, will you please tell me what you found out from this little digging of yours?”

Nathan stares at Sam for one hard moment and finally lets it all go with a shrug. “Alright, fine.” He hands Sam the notebook. “Look at this journal entry," he says, pointing at a page. "It says there that Rembrandt traveled to Jerusalem in 1626. Then check out the dates of each of the paintings when he hid parts of that key and what he did to them.”

Sam reviews Nathan’s notes. On the corner of the page, a neat sketch of the first piece of the key complete with its elaborate carvings is drawn in pencil. A Polaroid photo of the _Belshazzar’s Feast_ is also pinned on the other side. “Okay, so the _Belshazzar’s Feast_ was painted around 1635, the Jeremiah piece in 1630, then Saint Peter’s in 1631,” he says, reading off the notes. “And… he sold all of it around the same year he wrote his last entry, the one we found in the painting.” He looks at Nathan. “Uh, so where exactly are you going with this?”

“It’s just… he went through lengths to find these random paintings he already sold just to hide these key parts.” A rather pensive frown crosses Nathan’s face. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“He’s an artist. Artists rarely make sense,” says Sam. “Besides, I don’t think it’s random. And if we want to make sense of it, look—” he points at the photo of _Belshazzar’s Feast_ — “this painting tells that story in the Book of Daniel, about Belshazzar holding a feast for a thousand of his nobles with the gold and silver goblets his father Nebuchadnezzar looted in Jerusalem, from the First Temple itself—”

“—and during the feast, the hand of God appears and writes on the walls.”

“Yep. Then Belshazzar dies the same night.”

“Right. Well, glad to know the things we learned from Father Duffy have proven useful for this.”

“Tell me about it. And look, the next two paintings we’re supposed to find are already giving it all away, too damn straightforward in their titles—”

_“Jeremiah Lamenting_ _The_ _Destruction of Jerusalem_ and _Saint Peter in Prison.”_

Sam nods agreeably. “Also, our guy Rembrandt mostly painted portraits of people. He didn’t start working on biblical themes in his art until the mid-1620s.”

“Huh.” A realization dawns on Nathan's face. “And that’s around the time he returned from his trip.”

“Exactly.” Sam grins triumphantly. “So I think he deliberately chose these pieces. He’s sending us a warning.”

“Which we are all actively ignoring.” Nathan nods thoughtfully. He turns and smiles at Sam. “But look at you. I didn’t expect you’d know a lot about Rembrandt’s works.”

“Try hanging out with Jane and you’d probably learn more than you need to know about Baroque and Renaissance art.”

“I think I’d pass, big brother,” says Nathan, slapping a hand over Sam’s shoulder. “She’s all yours—“

“They’re here!”

Leti returns carrying a small tub of vanilla ice cream and three plastic spoons, scurrying back to Sam and Nathan as she is followed by Victor, Greta, and Darcy, who is strangely out of her usual black shirt and jeans attire but in a red floral dress. The only thing that remains on brand is her trusty combat boots. 

Sam tries not to stare too much, but for a brief moment, his eyes meet hers. She quickly looks away. He lowers his gaze.

“I believe I bring both good news and a kind of bad news,” says Greta by way of greeting. She joins to sit with them on the grass underneath the tree shade with such graceful primness that Sam feels guilty not bringing Leti’s picnic mat. Leti sidles up to Greta, and Greta cuddles her close. Victor and Darcy remain standing under the heat of the afternoon sun. 

“Okay, good news first,” says Nathan, snatching the ice cream tub from Sam, taking a spoonful. “Just so I can mentally prepare first for the bad news.”

“Alright.” Greta folds her hands over her lap, as proper as ever. “So I spoke to Lars De Vries, the head curator of Rijksmuseum, and he’s allowed entry after visiting hours tonight. Take it as a very private tour of sorts.”

“And the bad news?”

Greta and Victor trade an uncertain look. “He’ll only allow two people from our group to come in.”

“Oh.” Nathan and Sam look at each other, then he looks back at Greta. “Wait, that’s the bad news?” he says, exhaling a sigh of relief. “I was expecting something worse.”

“Well, I told this to Greta, but I was actually hoping to show Leticia around without the usual tourist crowd,” says Victor. “But then again, we’re really not here for a vacation so that’s beside the point.”

“It’s okay, Papá.” Leti grabs the ice cream tub from Nathan and settles back to lean against Greta’s shoulder. “We still have time to go with Mami and everyone,” she says after eating a spoonful of ice cream. “And you can pay the tickets because you have money now.”

Victor laughs. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Greta sweeps a gentle hand over Leti’s hair. “And we can always go tomorrow, _mija,”_ she adds fondly.

“Well, I think you should go,” Nathan offers Greta. “You and Darcy are clearly more well-versed in this department.”

“Oh, thank you for your consideration, Nathan, but I’m afraid I have to decline your kind offer,” says Greta. “I have important business to attend to at the Stedelijk, so I trust you can choose amongst yourselves as to who should go tonight. I’ll send Lars your names. So?”

They settle in a strange, undecided silence. Sam and Nathan and Victor look at one another. Darcy is quiet and shows no intention of looking at anyone. A warm breeze drifts past, the trees rustling along with it. Dogs bark at a distance.

Leti raises her hand, turns to look at Greta. “Don’t you think Darcy and Sammy should go?” she asks after the long, doubtful pause. “Sammy knows more about paintings than Natey now.” She happily takes another mouthful of ice cream and smiles.

Sam does not get a chance to protest when Nathan quickly adds, “Actually, Leti’s right. I’ll let my big brother take on this one.”

“No objections from me too,” assures Victor. “At least now I get the time and show Leti around the Cuyp.”

Sam exhales a sigh of obvious resignation. Since he clearly has not been given a choice on this matter, all he finds himself saying is: “Sure, I’ll go.”

Greta looks at Darcy. “Jane? Your thoughts?”

Darcy simply shrugs as a response as she digs the heels of her boots on the ground. She is unusually quiet today, Sam notices. Quiet and strangely restless.

“Alright, I guess that’s decided then,” says Greta, clapping her hands together. “I’ll let Lars know.” She looks at Darcy then at Sam. “Be there by eight o’clock sharp. And don’t be late. He does not tolerate latecomers very well."

The vast and copiously decorated architecture of the Rijksmuseum is overwhelming to say the least as Sam follows Darcy through the Great Hall. The tiny squeak of her boots against the perfectly polished parquet floor is the only sound that occupies between them. She still hasn’t spoken to him since that afternoon in Vondelpark. She has not even uttered a single word during that rather painless time to see Rembrandt’s _Jeremiah Lamenting The Destruction of Jerusalem_ with very little help from Lars De Vries.

Their meeting with Lars had been quick and brief. The moment they arrived, the wiry, old man was amiable enough to spare them courtesies, then he proceeded to usher them to the conservation studio where the painting was being studied, and left them to roam around as they please. Sam found this strange, letting them inside completely unguarded with a masterpiece right in front of them, but he could not bring himself to raise this issue. Perhaps it was because there were other painters and curators in the studio, too, which was why they found it unnecessary to keep them supervised. But the way Sam saw it, if these artists were to watch over all the other pieces in the room, they would still fail criminally short to the task as all of them were too drawn on their own canvases, busy making their art, not paying anyone any mind. Sam and Darcy walked into the room and no one even bothered to look at them. In any case, they made the most out of that opportunity, and they were just as quick and brief to attend to their business. They worked wordlessly: Sam took a photo with his disposable camera, Darcy inspected the back of the painting. As soon as they recovered the second part of the key and the letters from the painting as discreetly as they could, they both saw it best not to dwell any longer to read its contents. Sam suspected Greta never gave the whole truth of the intention of their visit, because had that been the case, the museum would never have allowed it and they would have immediately taken it all under their possession. 

And so Sam and Darcy simply left the studio and met with Lars in the lobby, who kindly reminded them that they still have the time to explore the museum until ten o’clock if they wish to do so.

Now they’ve got a touristless and eerily quiet Rijksmuseum all to themselves.

“So, Jane,” says Sam as Darcy stops in front of a painting of a swan, finally deciding to shatter this unsettling silence. “Is everything okay?”

Darcy looks at him with a confused expression on her face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… you’ve been unusually quiet. Something on your mind?”

“Oh.” She blinks. The question seems to come as a surprise to her, as if no one has ever asked her this before. “Um, nothing. It’s nothing important—”

“Hey, c’mon—“ Sam gives her shoulder a little nudge. “You can talk to me,” he says.

Darcy looks at him and hesitates. She toys with her pendant in restless twists. “It’s… well, being here makes me miss my dad,” she says. “He promised to take me here—he was keen to show me Rembrandt’s _The Night Watch,_ I’ve always wanted to see it in person _—_ but he… he never really found the time.” She winces a sad smile, shakes her head. “Anyway, that’s just it. Me getting unreasonably lonely. You must think this is silly.”

“No, of course not. I… I get it.”

The silence that sits between them is strangely solemn. 

“You know,” says Sam, “my mother used to take me and Nathan to museums. One time, when I was a kid—and Nathan wasn’t born yet—she took me to London and showed me around The British Museum, Victoria and Albert Museum, The National Gallery even.” He shrugs, digs his hands inside his pockets. “I hardly remember any of that at all, I only saw pictures of her with me in her arms or in a stroller. But whenever I find myself in places like these, I can’t help but think of her.”

Another silence. Down the corridor, two guards make their rounds, the click of their footsteps a clear echo inside the hall.

“I read it,” says Darcy after a pause. “In your record. About what happened. I… I’m so sorry, I—“

“Hey, it’s fine.” He smiles. Somehow, he appreciates her openness to admit her prior knowledge and not pretending she is learning about his past for the first time. “That happened a long time ago. Nathan and I were both kids.”

“What was she like? If I may ask?”

“Well,” Sam says slowly as he takes a seat on the long leather bench. “She’s just like your mother. Too loving, too nurturing. She was a historian, too, and she loved talking about lost civilizations over dinner, and—“

“—talking about work and research?” She sits right next to him. “Stories about dead people and ancient cultures?”

“Yes, exactly that!” Sam laughs. She laughs, too. “But it was fun. We enjoyed her stories a lot. She’s been to many places because of her work. Museums are her thing, too. And I’m pretty sure she’d kick my ass if she sees me just lounging here and not seeing all these great works of art.” 

An eager smile crosses Darcy’s face. “Well then,” she says, “I suppose we should go around and check out everything we can and make your momma proud, yes?”

They spend the next hour wandering the floor, visiting sections upon sections of art—from small-scale sculptures to artworks of Flemish influences, they leave no room unseen. The roaming guards that pass by them are their only company. One of them Sam can already recognize by face because he has seen the man not too long ago when they stopped by the tapestries and cabinets of art. This makes him slightly queasy, the thought that they are being watched, when there is this growing part inside him that wants to preserve these moments with Darcy to himself. 

Because here, even in the occasional silence that occupies between them, Sam begins to see Darcy in a different light. He notices how Darcy stays a little while to study certain pieces that catch her eye with such joyful keenness, or how she ardently rambles about the history behind the works she has been familiar with all her life. He realizes how much he enjoys talking to her about these things. He takes photos of her with his disposable camera, and strangely enough, she lets him. He has never seen her this giddy before, or how easy her smile grows on her face at the sight of the things she loves most. This, Sam presumes, is how she loves: fiercely, passionately, with no sign of constraint.

Finally, they end up seeing _The Night Watch_ for last.

Darcy looks up at the painting and a fond smile brightens her face. All at once, Sam realizes how ill-prepared he had been to spend these moments with her, and he is overcome by an unfamiliar feeling, a strong need to capture this smile of hers. A photo would not even do it justice. He wants to take this and lock it in a jar to hold onto forever.

And it is here where he realizes something else.

Sam’s always been a good thief, if not great. He’s always been quite excellent at picking locks, smoothly lifting a wallet from a businessman’s pocket, stealing things that aren’t his to take. But for the first time in his life—and this dawns on him as he watches Darcy, her eyes glued to a painting she has been looking forward to see all her life with a marvel of someone who’s seeing colour after ages of being in the dark—it occurs to him that someone has stolen something very important to him right under his nose. His chest aches in its absence. He is certain that the culprit is right before him. 

“Hey, Jane?”

Darcy turns. “Yeah?”

And so in long and urgent strides, Sam makes his way to Darcy and kisses her. Madly. This isn’t exactly the most ideal thing to do in the middle of a job-in-progress, but he is desperate for her to know. _I know it’s you._ She kisses him back, the warmth of her mouth burns hot in his lips. And even as he pulls away, he sees the way Darcy is smiling at him now, as if to say: _Guilty as charged._ All he knows from that smile is that she has stolen his heart like no one else before. And quite frankly, he doesn’t mind if he’s not getting it back.

They decide to walk back to their hotel. The city remains awake even at this hour, its streets basking under the glow of the city lights, the canals a luminous black mirror, the music from bars and restaurants the heartbeat of it all. This summer evening is strangely cold. Sam offers Darcy his denim jacket, letting it hang over her shoulders. She looks up at him and smiles.

“Hey, Samuel?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for putting up with me tonight.”

Sam stops in his tracks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” She pauses. Her fingers find the pendant in her necklace again. “Most people find me insufferable when I go on and on about these kinds of things, and you didn’t seem to mind. Or at least you pretended to—”

“Hey, Jane.” Sam walks over to her, takes her hand in his. “I enjoyed my time with you. And if I could ever afford it in my lifetime, I would close the Louvre just for us so you could explain to me at length why Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa, what inspired the Venus de Milo, and whatever it is that you fancy telling me more about. I’d listen all day.”

Another smile brightens her face. “Thank you. That is very kind of you to say.” At this rate, he is dangerously getting high off her smiles. A drug he cannot get enough of. He wants to cram it inside his pockets, to keep it to himself for as long as he possibly could.

“And you shouldn’t listen to those people who find you insufferable when you talk about something you love,” he says.

“Okay. So you don’t find me annoying at all?”

“Well, I do, but you’re _my_ kind of annoying.”

Darcy rolls her eyes. “Right.”

“Jane.” He tucks her hair behind her ear, presses his forehead against hers. “You know you’re pretty cool, right?”

“No,” she whispers. “But for heaven’s sake, just kiss me, you fool.”

Sam laughs, and he does as she asks. He kisses her, the warmth of her soft hands finding his face, her body pressed against his and all at once, it’s as if the city begins to illuminate brighter than before, and this is the only moment that matters, this kiss and nothing else. 

“I have to say,” says Sam, “I’ve been waiting a long time to do this.”

Darcy bites her lip to stop herself from smiling. “I could say the same thing.”

They continue their walk in silence, her hands laced with his. Just before they head inside their hotel, he grinds to a halt at the front steps. 

“Is something wrong?” Darcy asks.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Sam says and smiles. "I... well, I just remembered that we're actually sharing a room now."

Darcy groans. "My Mum has a strange sense of humour. I'm really sorry about the change in the room arrangement."

"Don't worry, it's fine," he says. "Anyway, let's head inside."

Sam opens the door for her. He looks over his shoulder once more, and he does not mention that he might have seen one of the guards from the museum watching them from across the street.


	6. Darcy Kingsley

It is almost five a.m., and in the artificial, air-conditioned chill of her hotel room, Darcy is sitting at the desk, staring at another page of Rembrandt’s letters while absently scribbling on her almost worn-out leather journal, her face illumined by the pale glow of the jellyfish screensaver on her computer screen. A cup of tea right next to her laptop has already gone cold. The parts of the key lay on top of her secondhand copy of Virginia Woolf’s _Mrs. Dalloway._ She usually works best in early mornings, just before dawn while the sun still sleeps along with everyone else, and yet today, she finds it hard to concentrate. It vexes her, this irrational restlessness. She forces herself to think about their next move, their next plan, their next agenda, but all she can think of, much to her disappointment, is the memory of that last smile, that last kiss, everything about last night.

Behind her, Samuel is still sound asleep on the couch by the window.

For what it’s worth, despite being forced to share a room with one king-sized bed all thanks to the higher power that governs the room arrangements that is her mother, nothing happened after they returned to the hotel. Which, if one would think about it, is a bit of anticlimactic given the sudden turn of… events. But it’s fine, Darcy decides. (Not that she was expecting something eventful to happen. She wasn’t expecting anything _at all.)_ If it counts for anything, it surprised her when Samuel quickly volunteered to take the couch to let Darcy monopolize the entire bed. She offered him to take the bed instead, because really, his gangly body needed the space more than hers ever did, but he seemed determined to settle with discomfort. She even suggested he could simply share the bed with her, because _really,_ it was big enough to fit three average-sized people, but he insisted the couch would be best for him. He kissed her goodnight, and she did not press on after that. Darcy appreciated his generous and mindful gesture, how he took consideration of her comfort than his own. Though admittedly, she’s also a bit dismayed. 

Clearly, appreciation and dismay are feelings that exist on opposite sides of the spectrum, and yet Darcy does not know how it is humanly possible that she felt it both all at once. Perhaps she really did hope for something to happen. But not like sex. Just sleeping with him—in its purest, unadulterated form, of course—and merely lying next to him would have been nice. She did not understand why he had to keep himself at a distance. His sudden indifference unnerved her. And then there was that point past midnight when she had caught him awake, staring out the window, a brooding and heedful shadow watching over a sleepless city. She watched him, too. She watched him and she wondered what was going on through that clever head of his, wondered what she would find if she could ever crack the code behind the machinery of his mind and if, by any chance, between the pulleys and gears of his thoughts, she would find herself existing somewhere in it. Has he ever thought of her the same way she did? Has she ever crossed his mind, made him wonder like this, too?

Or perhaps she had offended him without even being aware of it? That would probably explain his hasty and yet unreasonable detachment. Because it had only been moments ago when he kissed her in an empty museum. Then under a streetlight, she asked him to kiss her again, and when he did, his kiss was calculated to leave her wanting more and…

Okay, now she knows what her problem is today.

_Shit._

She’s craving for him. 

And she’s not supposed to crave for him like this as though she has been starved of his kiss, as though she has lived the last years of her life deprived of it. She’s not supposed to want him. What she wants is to _not_ want him. She fears that wanting him would become a habit and she’s terrible at breaking habits and for heaven’s sake, he’s making it immensely difficult for her to rid herself of him when he looks at her like she’s the only person in the room, holds her like she’s the only one that matters, as if this is what it means to finally have a body and to be seen for the first time, as if that kiss broke a curse and made her visible, that wretched kiss that started it all, that _bloody_ kiss—

“What’cha up to?”

“Fucking hell!” Darcy jolts up, her heart nearly leaping out of her chest as she wheels around, wields her pen and ready to stab someone in the gut. Much to her relief, she only sees a startled and a still sleepy Samuel, clad only in his gray sweatpants, hands raised in surrender with a look that says, _It’s just me._

She takes a deep breath and exhales a heavy sigh. “Christ, don’t sneak up on me like that! I could have stabbed you!”

“And you didn’t so thank you for that.” He laughs. “But I’m sorry.” He folds his arms over his chest, gives Darcy a groggy yet curious look. “Why are you up this early?”

“I’m always up this early.” She falls back on her seat. “To work.”

“Oh. And?” He pulls up an empty chair and sits by her side. He spots her art journal. “What’s that?”

Darcy ignores his question and slides her notebook inside her backpack. Instead of having to bear the excruciating burden of looking Samuel in the eye and enduring his audacity to be shirtless, she directs her attention back to the desk, looking at the letters. “Aren’t you freezing?” she asks, stuffing her hands inside the pockets of her black hoodie. “Can’t you put a shirt on?”

“Nope.” Even without looking at Samuel, Darcy can tell from the tone of his voice alone that a smug smirk has grown all over his face. “Why, is it distracting you?” 

“No. Absolutely not. I don’t mind at all.”

“Alright, then.” He taps a finger over her shoulder. “So. May I?”

“May I what?” Darcy swivels to face him. He is smiling at her, and devilishly so.

He jerks his head to her backpack lying on the desk. “That notebook with your drawings?”

“Oh. That.” Darcy considers Samuel for a moment. She bites her lip, laces her fingers together and squeezes it. Her art journal is just as private as her laptop. A piece of her that she could not bring herself to share easily with anyone. Letting anyone see it is the closest thing she has to baring her entire soul. 

“Hey,” says Samuel, “if it’s strictly confidential then I don’t mind—”

“No, I suppose it’s fine.” She is already about to hand it over to him, but she quickly withdraws and clutches her notebook close to her chest. She stares at him with a hard, dubious look. “But do you swear you’re not going to be an asshole and make fun of it?”

Samuel shakes his head, lets out a small laugh. “Jane, c’mon. I think we can both agree that it’s too early for me to exercise my asshole powers given I just woke up.”

“And here I thought your general assholery operates 24/7.”

“You think so highly of me, thanks.” A wry yet endearing smile passes his face. “But really—I could never make fun of anything that you create.” His tone is altogether warm and serious. He means it.

Darcy says nothing. Still partly reluctant, she gives Samuel her notebook. She fidgets nervously at her necklace as she watches him flip from one page to another, sifting through her sketches of random landscapes and tiny watercolour paintings with snippets of poetry, looking at all of it with delighted carefulness. He nods, smiles agreeably, nods again.

“You know,” she says, “you don’t have to be polite and tell me that it’s—”

“These are _amazing,”_ he says, sounding rather impressed. “And this one—” he points at a page where she has a sketch of birds in flight— “would make a fine tattoo.” When he finally reaches a blank page, he hands the notebook back to Darcy, smiling amusedly. “Seriously. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Well, I’m terrible at math,” she says, setting her journal down on her lap, her hands folded primly over it. “And I can’t swim.”

“Okay, fair enough.” He smiles, shrugs. “So you draw often? I know that’s a fairly stupid question given you’re an art student, but I mean as a hobby and not an academic requirement.”

“Sort of often, I guess. I draw even more so when I can’t concentrate on what I should be doing. Like analyzing these letters for instance.”

“Huh.” Samuel nods thoughtfully. “You do realize,” he says, “that you didn’t have to do this alone? That I can help you out, right?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just…” Darcy draws a sigh. “Anyway, so,” she says, “these letters that we found inside the painting are all mostly notes and rough sketches.” She hands him a page with an exquisite drawing of what seems to be a room with two angels, their wings spread out, touching the wall on either side. Between it is a two-leaved door. At the bottom of the page is a handwritten note, almost a hurried scribble that says, _I wish I had brought my paint and easel. Pales in comparison in person._ “I recognize some of the figures in the illustration, like there are those cherubim figures which are rather common in temples, but… I’m not quite familiar as to what to make of it.”

Samuel studies the page. He then takes on the other letters. He gets up, lays it out on the desk, reviews it side by side. A moment later, his face shifts from one of concentration to absolute surprise.

“No fucking way.” 

“Why? What is it?”

“This is the Holy of Holies.”

Darcy's face creases to a curious frown. “You mean where the Ark of the Covenant was kept?”

“The very same. This is one of the many rooms in the First Temple. See here—” Samuel excitedly points at the part with the cherubim and the door, and she stands right by his side to take a look— “this is how it was described in the first book of Kings. There’s a chapter there that greatly details Solomon’s effort in building the temple. I forgot which part. But anyway, the inner sanctuary—the Holy of Holies—was described to have been built with a pair of cherubs made of olive wood, the walls carved with palm trees and flowers.”

“And how do you know all this?”

“I was raised by priests and nuns. I’ve read the Bible from cover to cover. Thrice.”

“Oh. That’s quite…”

“Unlike me?”

“Well, I was going to say impressive, but I suppose that applies, too.”

Samuel stares at her. “Was that a compliment just now, Jane?”

“Would you like me to take it back? I mean, I’m not opposed to—”

“No, no, no.” He smiles amusedly. “Thank you. So anyway,” he says, clearing his throat, “now consider Rembrandt’s note.” He traces a careful finger along the lines of another yellowing parchment. “Here he writes how everything he sees is made of gold, even the floors. How he wants to take it all home. Which could only mean one thing.”

Samuel looks at Darcy with a delighted, knowing smile of someone who just unearthed a massive secret. She understands what he is beginning to imply.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” she says, shaking her head. “The temple would have been in ruins in Rembrandt’s time. It was destroyed centuries ago, after the Siege of Jerusalem. King Nebuchadnezzar made sure to go through scorched earth in the entire city. So it’s impossible—”

“If we eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Darcy ever so pleasantly rolls her eyes. “Clever of you to quote Arthur Conan Doyle at a time like this.” She crosses her arms. “But can you explain how on earth, in all these years, with all the technological advancements available, not a single soul has discovered its location? It’s been believed that it sits atop the hill where present-day Temple Mount is, but many archaeologists have tried looking around that area and found nothing.”

“Then they must be looking at the wrong place. Look, my mom always told me—and I’m pretty sure you know this, too—that history is not always what it seems. Sometimes, what we know is only the tip of the iceberg. Take what we just found out about Rembrandt for example. Who would suspect that an artist like him was actually interested in finding the First Temple _and_ actually succeeded in doing so?”

Darcy opens her mouth to speak, but closes it. A pensive silence settles in their midst.

“Well, we still have yet to confirm if he did succeed,” she adds after the pause. She begins to tidy up the letters, arranging it neatly to a pile.

“And we still have one more painting to find. This journey is far from over, Jane. We’ll figure this out as we go.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

He smiles. He moves to stand behind her, slips his arms around her waist, the warmth of his chest pressing her back. “Now,” he says, planting a kiss on the crown of her head, “what else is on your mind, my dear sweet Jane?” 

She finds herself leaning into his arms. The gesture—even the way he calls her name—chips at her defenses little by little. “Did I…” she pauses, bites her lip. “I didn’t happen to say something that offended you last night, did I?”

“No, of course not.” He slowly turns her around, her eyes searching hers. “Why would you think that?”

“Because… nevermind. It’s rather silly—“

“No, tell me.”

“Because you chose to sleep on the couch. I was hoping you’d sleep right next to me at the very least.”

“Oh.” Samuel nods, looks away. “Well, I… I actually got scared,” he admits sheepishly. 

Darcy raises a brow. “Scared of what?”

“Of you. Of being too near you.” He cups her face with both hands, his thumbs tracing her cheeks, his body curling into her as he leans his forehead against hers, a kind of tenderness she is still struggling to name. “It’s really hard to be so close to you and not want to kiss you all the damn time.”

By some form of courage, Darcy abandons all manner of modesty and reason as she pulls him close to kiss him. He gives in to her just as easily, kisses her as if he had not kissed her last night, as if this is all brand new. He holds her closer, her body only bends in answer. Make it another way to say amen. Let it be so. He has such strong hands and it speaks for him like a prayer. She knows that he knows by now—just as she wants him to know—that she is yielding inch by aching inch as he propels her to the bed, peels her out of her hoodie until she’s only in her gray tank top and unflattering sweatpants. She does not protest. She does not need to beg for worship when his mouth sings praise in the kisses he offers her cheek, the crook of her neck, her bare shoulder. A soft moan leaves her lips. Make it another way to say amen. Let it be so, let it be so, let it be so.

“Tell me to stop,” he says breathlessly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You can tell me if this isn’t—”

“I don’t want you to stop.” She looks into his eyes. She traces a delicate finger on his bottom lip. “Don’t ever stop.”

He smiles at her, and he does as she says. He kisses her again, and she is left with no other choice but to give herself to him, to this man whom she had sworn never to speak to nor to give any of her smiles but as it turns out, much to her folly, he’s the only one capable of making her smile like she truly means it, the only one to know what she needs more than she does, and the terror of his tenderness sends a stirring shudder all the way down her spine, but she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care anymore, all she wants is—

“Sammy? Darcy? Can I come in?”

A series of knocks and the sound of Leticia’s voice sends both of them detaching as quickly as two similar poles of magnets repel each other. Darcy almost stumbles out of the bed, but Samuel is quick to catch her. They’re both trying not to laugh as she hurries to tuck herself underneath the blankets to pretend that she is still asleep, while he hastily gets himself dressed and rushes to open the door for Leticia.

“Good morning, munchkin,” she hears Samuel say so casually by the corridor as he lets Leticia in. “You’re, uh... you’re up early.”

“Of course I’m up early. You and Natey promised me we’ll go sightseeing—oh.” Leti suddenly tones her voice down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know Darcy’s still sleeping.”

“It’s okay. It’s—“

“Did you sleep on the couch, Sammy? Did you guys fight again?”

“No. I wanted her to have all the space, that’s all.”

“That’s… very gentlemanly of you.” Leticia sounds awfully disappointed. Darcy bites her lip to stop herself from letting out a laugh.

“Hey, I always try to be chivalrous, alright,” says Samuel defensively. “Now you little Spaghetti, can you at least let me take a shower? I’ll meet you guys downstairs. And it’s still too early, it’s only six.”

“Fine, fine. But can we also invite Darcy to come with us? Please?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll tell her when she wakes up, okay?”

A short pause. An excited shuffle of footsteps pads along the carpeted floor. Then follows a soft click of the door.

Another silence.

“That was close,” says Samuel as he flops at the edge of the bed. “You can come out of hiding.”

Darcy gets out of the covers. They look at each other for a moment. She holds his stern gaze until a smile creeps up on his face. He falls back to the bed, scooping Darcy with him, and they both burst into a high, dizzying laughter as he peppers her face with kisses that could last her for years.

  
  
  


After breakfast, Darcy inevitably spends the rest of her morning with Samuel, Nathan, and Leticia as they go around the city. She had been initially planning to make use of this free day to finish her current read and eventually bury herself in bed until lunch, but of course, Samuel coaxed her out of the sheets, telling her a nice and refreshing change of pace might do her good. Besides, she really could not bring herself to turn down Leticia’s invitation, not when she came prepared with a list of places she wanted to go to before they leave tomorrow. Thankfully, it was a very short and manageable list of three notable places: Van Gogh Museum (a choice that left Darcy quite impressed), Anne Frank House (another impressive choice), and Dam Square.

Darcy has to admit: she’s glad that she decided to get herself out of bed and join their little trip. During their stop in Van Gogh Museum, Samuel persuades Darcy to be the one to show them around, to which Nathan happily agrees, and Leticia quickly takes her hand and pulls her to see Van Gogh’s self-portraits sitting right beside the information guide. They hop from one floor to the next, with Leticia pointing at artworks that catch her eye, Samuel and Nathan casually strolling right behind them, and Darcy trying her best to explain it without sounding overly enthusiastic. Still, Leticia encourages her to tell them all the stories she knows. Darcy simply indulges her. It is such a comfort to have Leticia around, Darcy decides. For someone so young, she is always cheery and curious and clever, never ceases to please. At some point, when Leticia spots the _Head of a Skeleton with a Burning Cigarette,_ she jokes how that is going to be Samuel in a few years if he does not quit smoking anytime soon. This makes both Nathan and Darcy laugh, while Samuel responds by playfully picking Leticia up that they startle the other guests with her delighted squeal. They all rush out of the room, muttering swift apologies, and they all erupt in peals of laughter that one of the burly guards throws them a menacing glare. The guard looks awfully familiar to Darcy, but she decides not to dwell on it too much and let it kill all the fun.

There is no denying it that they make quite a lively bunch together, Leticia and Samuel and Nathan. By the time they’ve reached Anne Frank’s House, it becomes more evident to Darcy how genuinely doting Samuel and Nathan are as big brothers to Leticia. They always crack each other up, poking fun at one another with their silly nicknames, exchanging playful insults like it’s a competition no one is ever keeping score. Darcy observes how Leticia is endearingly close to both brothers, with the way she tackles them with hugs or invites them to play a round of thumb wrestling while waiting in line for their tickets, but she cannot deny that Leticia is particularly closer to Samuel. More often than not, he is the first one Leticia calls when she spots something she likes in Bloemenmarkt, the first hand she chooses to hold as they walk along the scenic streets of Jordaan, the first one she returns to when she slightly steers away from the group. Darcy can tell that Nathan does not mind coming in second. He might not admit it out loud, but in the weeks that have passed, she has seen how he holds his older brother in high regard. And in a way, Nathan is just like Leticia. They are fortunate to be sitting under the comfort of Samuel’s barrier of affection. 

Somehow, watching them like this—the cheeky taunts, the lighthearted teasing, the endless trade of banter, the echo of Leticia’s bright laughter—Darcy finds herself feeling oddly foreign in their company. It is as if there now exists a glass wall separating her from them and she is peering from the outside in, listening to them share a language that they have created solely for themselves, a kind of exclusive affection that she has no right to be a part of. It almost feels like arriving at a stranger’s home or coming to a party and realizing she was never invited. A lonely spectator in a room of happy people.

And it is at this moment that Samuel reels Darcy back in. He is always quick to notice whenever her mind drifts somewhere else. He asks, _You okay?_ as if already to say, _We’re here with you._ And when Nathan and Leticia walk far ahead of them, distracted by something they see in a souvenir shop and eager to explore deeper into its merchandise, Samuel lets them. He makes it a point to take her hand, letting her fingers intertwine perfectly with his even for a while. He makes every second count. He steals a kiss for good measure. He always does. They keep this secret in plain sight. And his kisses always seem like a faithful affirmation reminding her, _I’m with you. You’re not alone._

And even as their hands separate before Nathan and Leticia could ever see them, he leaves her a smile. A look in his eyes that only she knows how to translate. _Still with you._ And it is here, in this small fraction of a moment, that Darcy finally realizes the truth that she’s been denying herself this whole time, and it is this.

_I never really hated Samuel. Not once. I don’t think I could ever hate him at all._

  
  
  
  


They stop by Bijenkorf after lunch. Darcy has never been good at lingering in department stores packed with people, so the sparse crowd is a pleasant surprise. There are only a few shoppers milling about the women’s fashion section, wandering at a glacial pace from one branded stall to the other, mostly young women searching for swimwear and summer dresses. Luxury labels boast their racks of unreasonably expensive bags and shoes. The scent of designer fragrances is everywhere. On the radio, a Whitney Houston song serenades the entire floor. Not a little later, it is followed by a news broadcast about the notorious hacker named Ghost and their recent involvement with the MI5, while the radio jockey calls them "an attention-seeking wanker." Darcy stifles a laugh.

“So,” says Nathan, resting his elbow atop a shoulder of a bikini-clad mannequin, “why are we here again, Lettuce?”

Leticia frowns, rests both her hands on her waist. “That’s very funny. You were the one who said I didn’t pack enough clothes for this trip,” she says crossly, “and that you and Sammy will buy something for me—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know—I was kidding.” Nathan laughs, pinching Leticia’s cheek, to which she quickly shoves his hand away. _“Ay, hermanita,_ you’re so adorable. C’mon, let’s go.”

In an instant, Leticia beams like a bright bulb of light. She grabs both Samuel and Nathan by their wrists and tugs them to the first store that also offers a collection of clothes for girls her age. Darcy sheepishly follows right behind them. How she manages to drag these grown men to wherever she chooses to go is a wonder to Darcy, but she finds it rather amusing, even more so as she watches them help Leticia browse among rows of pleated skirts and floral dresses and pastel-coloured blouses. Darcy wishes she could offer sound advice to Leticia on this matter, but fashion has never been her forte. It doesn’t help either that she's picky; she only wears what she feels is comfortable. Emma would have made this trip a whole lot of fun if she had been here, Darcy decides. Her sister is the only person who has the patience to shop with her for clothes.

Leticia disappears behind the long, crimson curtains of one of the fitting rooms with a couple of clothes in hand. Meanwhile, Darcy sits right next to Nathan and Samuel on a Chippendale-style burgundy couch planted opposite a wall of mirrors. She catches a glimpse of their reflection. She really does look awfully small alongside these brothers.

“Do you always take Leticia shopping for her clothes?” Darcy finds herself asking the two of them.

“Yeah, definitely,” answers Nathan. “Sully can’t be bothered going to department stores, so he lets the two of us go with her.”

“But he does give us the money to pay for the stuff she buys, so he does go with us in spirit so to speak,” adds Samuel.

“Oh. Right.” Darcy nods. “Well, it’s really nice of you to accompany her to such things—“

“Darcy?”

The little voice comes from the other side of the dressing room. Leticia draws the curtain slightly to reveal her face.

“Can you, um…” Leticia hesitates. “Can you help me? With something?” She sounds a little undecided. 

Samuel and Nathan look at Leticia, then at each other, then at Darcy. 

Darcy smiles at Leticia. “Yeah, sure,” she says kindly, rising out of her seat. “Of course.” She joins Leticia inside the dressing room, where she notices the back of the pink summer dress she is wearing is halfway unzipped.

“I think I got it stuck,” says Leticia worriedly, still trying to reach for the zipper. “It’s a bit—”

“Let me do it.” Darcy hunches over behind Leticia and helps her zip it up. “There you go. You look really lovely.”

“Really?” Leticia’s tone is one of disbelief. She seems too surprised to receive the compliment, which Darcy meant wholeheartedly. She turns to look at herself in the mirror, tugging meekly at the sleeve, the bright smile on her face quickly dimming. “But the boys at school often laugh at me.”

“Oh, don’t bother with them.” Darcy stands behind her, rests her hands over her small shoulders, and lets her turn to look at her. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

“Yeah?”

“Never listen to boys. Especially the ones your age. They all talk rubbish.”

Leticia grins and nods agreeably. “Thank you, I will keep that in mind,” she says. 

Darcy offers to help Leticia out of the pink dress and assists her in fitting the yellow one with the shade of a canary. 

Leticia stares at herself in front of the mirror, smoothing the creases of the dress with her palms. “You know,” she says, “my Mamá had a similar dress. Back when she was still alive, she always tells me how my real Papá loved to dance with her whenever she wears it.”

“Oh.” This somehow piques Darcy’s curiosity that she cannot help but ask: “Have you met him? Your real father, I mean.”

“No,” says Leticia wistfully. “Mamá said he never came back. But I can tell how much she loves him. She says he’s tall, has beautiful eyes. And that the only thing she hates about him is how he always smokes his cigars.”

"Huh." Darcy pauses, smiles. There is a curious thing that bothers her about what Leticia has said, but it is swiftly eclipsed by a sudden, inexplicable sadness. _He sounds familiar. And yet he sounds just like my own father._ All at once, she remembers how often her mother scolded her father from smoking indoors, how he always made her laugh in the middle of that argument. It is a shame how she can no longer bear witness to any of that.

The absence in her chest stirs. She idly reaches for her pendant.

Leticia is tugging her arm, curiously looking up at her. “Are you okay, Darcy?”

Darcy blinks. “Yes, I’m fine. I apologize for spacing out. Anyway,” she says, gently sweeping the loose strands of Leticia’s hair away from her face, “do you like all of these? Shall we go and have these all paid?”

Leticia nods and beams in answer.

Darcy leaves the fitting room and lets Leticia change back to her clothes. Nathan goes on to pay for everything at the cashier. Just as they are about to leave, Leticia sidles up to Darcy and takes her hand.

“Don’t you want to try on something, Darcy?” she asks. “I think there are a lot of pretty dresses that would look nice on you.”

Darcy is taken aback with the proposition that all she can do is shake her head and decline it as kindly as she could. “You’re the sweetest, but it’s fine, really—I’m not good at this kind of thing—“

“Then we’ll help you! Just like the last time!” Leticia offers excitedly.

“No, I can’t possibly impose—“

“It’s fine, we still have a lot of time,” Nathan chimes in, nudging Darcy by her shoulder. “Besides, the little lady insists. And she won’t stop at nothing until you say yes.”

Darcy considers all three of them for an anxious moment. She darts Samuel an imploring look like, _Help me out here._

And he gives her a look like, _I’m actually enjoying this, so no._

And she gives him a look like, _You will rue this day, I swear to god._

The good news is that despite her reservations, Leticia makes the entire shopping experience rather surprisingly enjoyable for Darcy. It’s like having a fun-sized version of her older sister around, but without the needless commentary about brand and fabric. Emma likes to prattle on about those. Leticia, on the other hand, is simply determined to find what looks pretty and comfortable, which are the only two things that matter as far as Darcy’s choice of wardrobe is concerned. Now she oddly wants to trade Emma for Leticia, but decides to forego the hilarious thought.

And so they drift from one aisle to another, Leticia happily taking her pick and letting Darcy pass her judgment. Even Nathan and Samuel pitch in their choices for Darcy, the two of them randomly taking something from the racks and showing it to Leticia just to see if either of them would earn her approval—but mostly they are doing it just to pester their little sister, as older brothers tend to do. They do, however, present some decent options to Leticia and Darcy from time to time. In the end, since Darcy cannot possibly afford to indulge herself with a brand new set of wardrobe (overall, Leticia made Samuel carry ten articles of clothing, something she cannot fit inside her very limited luggage), she settles for an uncharacteristic choice of a white cotton dress that Leticia had chosen for her from a few shelves back. 

Darcy heads to the fitting room, tries the dress on, looks at herself in the mirror. Surprisingly, she doesn’t look _that_ bad. She doesn’t feel awful in it, either. The fabric hugs her body right. The hem of the dress falls nicely above her knees. Except the dress is sleeveless, which makes a complete show of her freckled arms. Still, she decides to take it. Just in case. 

As she is about to change back to her good old pair of shirt and jeans, Leticia calls out for her and goes, “Darcy, how is it? Can I see?”

“I, um…” Darcy reluctantly draws the curtains. “Well, it fits,” she rambles uneasily, “so, yes, I should go ahead and get changed—”

“I knew it! It looks good on you!” Leticia says excitedly as she pulls Darcy out of the fitting room. She circles around her, stops to study her in front of the mirror. “You look really pretty, Darcy! Wait here, I’m going to make you try something else—”

“No, it’s fine, I—” 

Darcy tries to object but it all wilts at the edge of her mouth as Leticia is already off with Nathan, disappearing into one of the aisles.

And then, of course, she is left alone with Samuel.

She dutifully avoids his gaze, which she feels is searing at the back of her head. She lets her eyes land on her reflection in the mirror. The dress really does suit her nicely, to be sure. But now, after a good second look, it all feels so… strange. Her face looks strange. She’s all pale and blue-eyed and full of freckles, and being in a white dress seems to magnify all her flaws. She stares at her boots. She can feel the bile of her self-loathing rising at the back of her throat—

“You look really beautiful.”

She looks up and from the mirror, she sees Samuel right behind her, hands in his pockets, his usual charming smile plastered all over his face. Now she feels awfully small with him just standing there.

“Um. Thank you,” she says. “You know you could’ve persuaded Leticia not to do this.”

“Sorry,” he says in a tone that clearly suggests that he is not even the least sorry. He inches closer until she can already feel the warmth of his breath on her back. Something inside her shivers. She keeps her eyes on him, just as he keeps his eyes on hers. His smile grows broader. And all at once, as quick as the thief that he is, he sneaks in a kiss on the nape of her neck. 

“Stop it!” Darcy laughs, swatting him away. “You’re being…”

She trails off. The moment she looks up at him, Darcy immediately notices the strange expression on Samuel’s face. He is looking hard at the mirror. He freezes. His face hardens. 

“Is everything okay?” she asks. “What’s the matter?” She looks back at the mirror, follows his line of sight.

A tall man in a suit is watching them from far across the room.

One minute Samuel is right behind her, the next he is gone. A commotion stirs not far away. Darcy runs after him, but is immediately stopped by a tall and mean-looking saleslady because, of course, she is still wearing the goddamn dress, so she frantically fishes out a 100 euro note from her purse, hands it over, no longer demanding for a change as she chases Samuel out of the department store, into the bustling street of Rokin, and right across Dam Square. She can still spot him amongst the crowd, and so she runs even faster, past all the throng of tourists, past all the souvenir shops, shouldering her way through a group of students out on a field trip, until she sees Samuel making a sharp left through a narrow alley behind an Irish pub. When she finally reaches him, she sees that he has already caught onto the man watching them in the department store, already busy beating him bloody.

“Who the fuck sent you, huh?” Samuel grabs the man by the collar of his suit and slams him against the wall. “Why are you following us since last night?”

The man spits on the ground and smiles a bloody smile at Samuel. Then he looks at Darcy. She feels like she has seen him before, all too familiar and...

She falters. There is no mistaking it. She never forgets a face.

It’s one of the roaming guards in Van Gogh Museum. The very same one she’s seen in Rijksmuseum, too.

_“Señor Bernal_ sends his regards to you,” the man says with a sharp sneer, his eyes never leaving Darcy. 

And with that, Samuel knocks the man out cold with one hard punch on the face.

Darcy stares at Samuel and then at the unconscious body of the man at his feet. She is still catching her breath, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer against her chest, but she can feel the panic and anger simmering at the pit of her stomach.

“You knew someone was following us?” Her tone is sharp with contempt. “All this time?”

“No, I—” he runs a bleeding hand through his hair— “look, I can explain later once we get back to the hotel but now we have to go—”

“Not just yet.” She takes another deep breath. In furious strides, she marches past Samuel and goes on to rummage through the man’s pockets. She manages to recover a wallet and two mobile devices. One is obviously a burner phone, the other a personal one. She takes all of them. For good measure, she unhooks the man’s earpiece and crushes it under her boot.

“Now let’s head back,” she says. “And you better have a good reason, Samuel. You fucking better.”

Back in the hotel room, three Americans and an Englishwoman huddle around the table, a bottle of whiskey in their midst, all of them every bit distraught as they craft their next plan. There is Nathan, deeply distressed; Victor, silently seething; Samuel, unmistakably guilty; and Darcy, painfully focused on trying to keep them all three from murdering each other. To be fair, it wasn’t exactly like this when their discussion started with Darcy briefing them about what they found last night in the Rijksmuseum and Samuel further elaborating the possibility of Rembrandt stumbling upon the Holy of Holies. It was only when he admitted to what had happened back in Bijenkorf and why it even happened in the first place that both Nathan and Victor came for his ass. 

“Look, I’m really, _really_ sorry,” says Samuel, “but I swear to god, it wasn’t my intention to _not_ say anything about it—to be fair, I didn’t even know for sure that we were actually being followed by someone from Santa Blanca until I saw that motherfucker again in the department store.”

Darcy frowns. “So you didn’t see him in the Van Gogh Museum?”

“No, I… he was there, too? That son of a bitch.” He runs a weary hand over his face. “Fuck.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, _you_ could’ve told it sooner,” Victor tells Samuel pointedly. He downs his glass of whiskey in one gulp. “And to think Leticia was there with you! I swear, if you had let her—”

“Now, now, now—Victor. You and I both know that I would _never_ let anything happen to Leticia under my watch so don’t you fucking dare—”

“Okay, okay, okay, enough!” Nathan slams an impatient hand on the table. “This isn’t really helping anyone now, is it? Can we all just calm down and think of our next plan instead? Because we need to get out of here before they find us.”

“Nathan’s right,” says Darcy. “But for now, we can breathe a little easy. I managed to buy us some time, but we have to leave for Jerusalem before the crack of dawn. My mother is already helping Leticia packing things up.”

“Alright then.” Victor sits forward, laces his hands together in front of him. “And may I ask what exactly did you do? If you don’t mind sharing your trade?”

“I hacked into the cartel’s servers,” Darcy explains. “Javi has a good monitoring system for all his men to keep them on a leash. He makes sure he knows their location and where to find them. Luckily enough, from what I gathered from the texts and email correspondences I found, the man Sam knocked out hasn’t reported to his boss yet about us. I assume he was still verifying his leads before sending it back to Javi. So in the meantime, while the poor bastard is indisposed in a garbage bin, I reprogrammed his phone’s GPS to point its location to Utrecht, and also probably threw in a text that says that Centraal Museum is our next target just to throw them off our trail.”

Nathan and Samuel and Victor all look at each other, and then back at Darcy. The silence rings in disbelief. 

“Jesus, you are just as terrifying as your mother,” says Victor, exhaling a sigh and sounding rather impressed. “But how do you know about Santa Blanca’s systems and all these things?”

“Because I programmed it for Javi,” she says rather ruefully. “I needed the money, so. Yeah.”

“Wow.” Nathan is gaping at her. “Now I am so glad you are on our side.”

Darcy snorts a small laugh. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

“So, uh…” Samuel shifts a little in his seat. “Can I ask you one thing though?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Javier mentioned something back in Hampton Court and...” His tone is uncertain. “I’ve had my suspicions but I want to hear it from you.”

For a while, Darcy says nothing. Nathan and Victor trade a confused look. Another tensed silence.

“What is it?” she says finally.

“So…” Samuel hesitates, clears his throat. Then: “You’re Ghost, aren’t you? The hacker they keep mentioning in the news?”

Darcy stares at Samuel, then blinks. She never expected that this subject would be brought up today, but there is no point denying it now. Frankly, she hasn’t really been expecting anyone involved in this gig would figure it out, but perhaps it’s about time to admit that she has underestimated the three of them. Samuel, most especially.

“What if I am?” is all she manages to say.

"Seriously, why can't you answer this question with a simple yes or no—"

"Fine, it is as you say. Yes."

Another look is exchanged between Nathan and Victor, and it’s one of surprise. Not that she can blame them.

Meanwhile, Samuel is unfazed. He only smiles and says, “Well, I actually think it’s kind of cool.”

Darcy laughs. “That’s a first. Most people think that I’m—and I quote— ‘an attention-seeking wanker.’”

“Well if anything, you’re a terrifying attention seeking wanker,” adds Victor amusedly. “But are you sure Javier won’t trace it back to you? This thing that you did?” 

“Eventually, maybe.” Darcy shrugs. “But I can assure you,” she says casually, “he won’t realize that shit has hit the fan until we’ve landed safely in Jerusalem.”


	7. Sam Drake

“Are you sleeping with my daughter, Samuel?” 

The question arrives from Greta like a freshly whetted knife that Sam nearly spits out his coffee all over the piles of texts spread out on the table. It is not exactly the kind of question he expects to be asked over breakfast while dutifully helping Greta on her translation work for some of Rembrandt’s letters, even more so in the middle of their discussion about the historicity of the Bible in this bright and beautiful morning out on the rooftop of their hotel in Jerusalem. From where they sit, the stunning view of the Old City surrounds them like a panoramic patchwork of structures flash-frozen in time: ancient minarets and domes dot the landscape, every brick and stone a reflection of the influences from the time of its Judean kings to Roman conquerors down to the reign of Ottoman rulers, the ground beneath them sanctified and made holy by history. 

And here is Sam, suddenly sobered from the Old City’s air of awe and wonder, struggling to formulate a response to such a simple question.

“Well, I—uh, no,” he stutters after a short, tensed pause. He sets down his cup. “I mean, I take the couch and she takes the bed—”

“My, you really are clever.” Greta laughs. He is unsure if he has amused her or if she is now mocking him. With Greta, it’s hard to tell the difference. “I apologize for asking out of the blue,” she says, pushing her reading glasses back to the bridge of her nose. “I know it’s untoward of me to pry on Jane’s personal affairs with you, but, well—call it a mother’s curiosity.”

“Uh, yeah. Of course.” Sam smiles uneasily. He clears his throat a little. “But Greta,” he says, “to be clear—there’s nothing going on between me and Jane—“

“Oh, Samuel.” She takes a sip of her tea, and even as she does, she spares him one wry look. Pointedly at that. Her eyes are just as blue as Darcy’s yet even more menacing. “You and Jane may fool your brother or Victor, but the two of you can never fool _me_ when it comes to these things.”

Sam says nothing for a moment. His eyes narrow at Greta as she resumes to leaf through the scrolls of texts right next to her plate of unfinished omelet. A sly grin tugs the corners of his mouth. “Is this why you asked me to stay and had Nathan accompany Jane to The Shuk instead?” 

“Perhaps.” She does not look at him, but he can see the delight in her smile. “But in all honesty, Samuel,” she says, “I do require your assistance on some of these letters. Nathan tells me you are more well-versed in the Bible than he is.”

“Right.” Sam nods agreeably. “Sure.” 

Back in Amsterdam, right before they took off, everyone had agreed that while Darcy searched for a way to secure access to the painting in the Israel Museum and meet her contact in The Shuk, it would be Nathan who would help Greta in deciphering the remaining Biblical texts Rembrandt wrote in his letters. Victor was keen to spend time with Leticia, so he was immediately out of the option. (Not that he can help with this, anyway. So.) He is loath to admit it, but Sam was actually looking forward to joining Darcy on that little trip. He was even thinking of taking her to a bookstore not far from the market, something he learned from the kind bellboy who ushered them into their room. The idea is quite ridiculous if he thinks about it. Many weeks ago, he could not even stand being left alone with Darcy. Now all he cares about is to be alone with her.

But of course, the plan had to change, so there’s that.

“Well, in all honesty, Greta, I…” Sam continues, but he falters. He thinks of saying something cheeky in defense of her accurate assumption, but he swiftly decides to take the careful and truthful route. Talking to Greta is always a gamble, and he’s already played all his cards earlier. He sighs. “Well, fine, I admit—you’re right. Something _is_ going on,” he says resignedly.

“Oh. Good. Thank you for your honesty, finally.” She reaches for the teapot, refills her cup. Then she smiles at him. Warmly this time. “And of course I’m right.”

“Though I really meant it when I said that I haven’t slept with Jane.”

“And you sound rather dismayed.”

“No, no. I’m… I’m not.” He may not have sounded dismayed, but now he sounds rather uncertain. He tries again. “It’s just, you know.” He stares at his share of letters. Rembrandt’s scribbled footnotes regarding the second chapter of John and a few verses from Matthew stare back at him. “I just… I—I know what she thinks of me,” he rambles helplessly, “and how she thinks I just sleep around and—”

“And is any of it true?” 

“Yes. No. I mean…” He pauses. He expels a heavy breath, musters the courage to look Greta firmly in the eye. “With her, I don’t want to be that kind of person anymore.”

Greta says nothing and only holds his gaze. Then her smile widens, and she laughs.

Sam lifts a baffled brow. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You’re smart, Samuel—but you can be inevitably blind to your own true affections.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Something you have to figure out on your own, I suppose.” She shrugs, pauses to wipe her glasses. “But what’s clear to me now is that you really do like her. And if you must know, I’m not against it.”

“Really?” Sam could not help sounding a little surprised. 

“Yes. I’m simply worried about what would come out of this romance once this job is all over.”

“I, well…” Sam tries to bring himself to speak, but falters. _Shit._ For the first time, he does not know what to say to _that._

Greta purses her lips, looks at him curiously. “You haven’t thought about it, have you?”

“No. I… I can’t say I have.” 

They fall into a thoughtful yet quite an uneasy silence. A warm breeze drifts past. Down below, the streets are abuzz with the chatter of milling peddlers and pedestrians. 

Greta resumes her reading, just as Sam returns to his letters. He reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. He lights it, takes a sharp drag, blows a stream of smoke up in the sky. It’s strange, having to hear the prospect of the job coming to an end from someone else’s mouth and to exhale its affirmation into the ether. Sam has been entirely consumed by this blissful bubble of adventure with Darcy that he has failed to entertain the thought of what happens once all of this is over. 

Actually, scratch that—he does know what happens next. 

Much like every other ending of a job that he and Nathan have taken, as soon as they get their money and find what they have come for, it’s back to their usual routine: fly back to Queens, stay for a while, find the next big discovery. Travel, eat, repeat. Sam and Nathan have both grown to hate having to be away from Leticia, but the lure of adventure keeps them going. That’s how it’s always been. This has always been their way, his and Nathan’s. It's the only kind of normal they’ve ever known—and he knows better than anyone that this doesn’t count as normal, not by a long shot—and still, they’ve never found any good reason to abandon this wayward kind of life. They never settle in one place, never linger too long in one city. They never even get too attached to the women they get to meet along the road, either. They always keep moving and moving and moving.

Except this time, for some reason that he is unwilling to admit, Sam wants to stop moving. He wants _everything_ to stop. He wants time to stand still just to keep any of this from ending. Because as he ruminates the choices that await him at the end of this trip, all he knows is that he doesn’t want to go back to the U.S. He doesn’t want to stay in Queens, he doesn’t even want to find the next big discovery or whatever that is anymore. And it unnerves him, this sudden relentless urge, a visceral decisiveness to will the world to stop spinning from its axis. He has committed a grave mistake, and he knows it. The irrevocable truth now that he can no longer deny is this: he cannot see himself parting ways with Darcy. Not when he doesn’t remember what it’s like going through his life without her in it. 

Now the very thought of leaving her brings him a crippling sense of dread that weighs heavy on him like a soggy lump of sandbags pressing hard against his chest. It terrifies him. He cannot dispel the feeling. 

“Is everything alright, Samuel?”

Sam turns and he finds Greta looking at him with an expression that carries a strange, solemn concern. 

“Yeah, yeah—sorry.” He winces a smile. He draws deeply on his cigarette, mashes it against his empty coffee cup. “I, uh… Just thinking about these verses, is all,” he says, casually steering their conversation back to its original discussion. “All of these talk about a temple being destroyed and then rebuilt in three days. And Rembrandt writes to _look for them._ Which really doesn’t make sense.”

Greta is still looking at him with a scrutinizing gaze, her lips pursed as if considering if she should call out Sam for such a poor bluff. Instead, she says, “How so?” If she had sensed the sudden surge of trepidation that seized him moments ago, she was kind enough not to mention it. For now, at least.

Sam coughs slightly. “Well,” he says, “the temple being rebuilt in three days is a metaphor for Christ’s resurrection. See—” he places one of the letters neatly down the table and points at the footnotes, then goes on to grab the Bible they borrowed from the reception and flips it to a specific page— “this passage in John addresses exactly that. And it’s a recurring thing across chapters in Matthew and Mark, too. Now Rembrandt kept noting these verses in his letters, even in his sketches and…”

A peculiar pause. The frown that settles in his face quickly dissolves. He exhales a small laugh.

“Jesus is the Temple,” he mutters almost to himself, drumming his fingers against his chin. “Of course.”

Greta shoots him a quizzical look. “I take it that you’ve figured it out?”

Sam nods earnestly. “Jesus rose from the grave after three days. Rembrandt is pointing us to _where_ the resurrection happened.” He eagerly reaches for the map of the Old City and rolls it out on the table. “And that site now should be somewhere around in—”

“The Church of the Holy Sepulchre.” Greta stares at the point on the map. She leans back in her seat, appears to be deeply deliberating on the subject. The smile on her face is all at once wistful. “Well done.”

“And yet you don’t look pleased.”

“No, I…” She falters. “I guess Henry was really looking in the right direction.”

“Oh.” Sam hardly ever hears Greta talk about her late husband that his first response is to summon enough tact not to stray into any touchy subject. So he settles for a question and asks, “I take it he’s been here before?” 

“Yes. See, there is little to no substantial archaeological evidence for the existence of Solomon’s Temple, and the structure is hardly ever mentioned in surviving extra-biblical accounts,” she begins to explain. “Most excavations around the Temple Mount, even from the ones begun by General Charles Warren in the 1800s, only unearthed artifacts that did little to provide solid proof that the temple did exist. But Henry...” She lifts her head, folds her hands together over the table. “Henry had a theory that Solomon built the temple _outside_ the Mount. Solomon was an immensely powerful and wealthy king, and by most accounts, he has erected many other buildings of importance in Jerusalem. And of course, Henry’s keen interest on this subject was only fueled when he found an old, almost crumbling leather journal in the crypts of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.”

“And I assume this journal is one of Rembrandt’s?”

“Yes, precisely. Which Henry and I found rather odd.”

“Wait—you were with him when he found it?”

“Yes. It was our first excavation together.”

“Huh.” Sam eagerly sits forward. He spares Greta an intrigued look. “Now that’s a story I’d like to hear.”

“And it’s a story I’d save for later.” She smiles, waves a reticent hand. “In any case, the journal. I mean, it felt out of place. Of all the things to find in a Jewish crypt, the last thing we ever imagined to find was a journal of a Dutch painter. But the contents had nothing to do with his art—it was mostly documentation of his travels all over the Middle East. Nothing quite relevant regarding the First Temple, or if he had any discoveries at all during his time here in Jerusalem. And thus Henry spent decades of his life in his tireless obsession to study more of Rembrandt’s works, what brought him here in the first place.”

“In which you were very much against.”

“At first, I wasn’t. We worked together on it," she admits. She lets out a rueful sigh. "After we retrieved another set of Rembrandt’s journals in Amsterdam, we started getting calls from strangers, men masquerading as art collectors, museum curators. But I know they weren’t. I only need to make a few calls to verify. Then I begged Henry to stop this research for the sake of our daughters. And I thought he had stopped. But after reading Henry’s journals in the basement, well. Turns out he had the gall to betray me even after his death.”

A mournful silence falls. Greta pours herself another cup of tea. The air is hot and arid and miserable. 

“I’m sorry,” says Sam. “For what happened. And for what happened to him.”

“Don’t be.” She takes a sip of her tea and she smiles a smile that is much more wistful than the last. “I married a man who loved his work more than me. His work is his wife and I was the mistress. Art history, archaeology—those two things were his life. I was only a historian whose passion pales in comparison to his. And I have come to accept it because that’s how much I loved him. And I still do, if you can believe it. I wouldn’t be here seeing this through if I didn’t.” 

Sam says nothing. It’s slightly jarring, having Greta confide in him about her late husband. He is relieved to know that she trusts him enough to share something so deeply personal. Still, looking at Greta awfully reminds him of his mother. _She, too, always gave too much, always loved too much_. He stares helplessly at the ashes in his cup.

“You know,” Greta goes on, “I should thank you for helping us out.”

Sam waves a hand. “Don’t mention it. Besides, we still have the last piece of the key to figure out.”

“True. But I have to say, though—Henry would’ve been delighted to meet you had he been with us.”

Sam quirks a brow. “Really? Even if he found out that I’m just a treasure hunter who also has the intention of dating his daughter?”

Greta laughs a cheery cackle. “Well, I suppose he’d make your life a little more difficult, but I’m certain he’d be fond of you.”

Sam laughs, too. “Now that’s a comforting thought.”

“And Samuel?”

“Yeah?”

“Just to let you know,” says Greta, “I have a couple of excavating trips back in the UK lined up once all of this is over. I’m still short of people to lend me a hand, and if you happen to know someone clever and capable and has an in-depth understanding of history, would you be so kind to let me know?”

Sam stares at Greta as if he’s trying to decipher the language which she had spoken. He shifts a little in his seat. “Wait, hold on,” he says slowly, raising a hand. “Are you… are you offering me a job?”

“For you and Nathan, actually. And I know it’s too soon to ask,” she says amiably, “but I thought of bringing it up since we’re already here. It would be a different kind of job from the ones you always tend to take, so I would understand if you’d decline. But I’m getting ahead of myself. You don’t need to give me an answer right away. It is simply for your consideration.”

“Right, right, right.” Sam nods, still reeling. Once again, he is left at a loss for words. “I, uh… thank you,” is all he can manage to mutter. “But I’ll have to talk to Nathan about it. Especially since Leti is—”

“I understand.” Greta smiles. And from her smile, Sam can tell that she really was aware of the anxiety that threatened to claw out of his mouth moments ago, and this gesture of a proposition is her way to quell it. 

Darcy is right. Her mother really does know things. And Sam cannot decide if he should be comforted with the thought or be terrified with it.

The rest of the morning busily rolls in a nebulous, bizarre blur that Sam finds the evening immensely surreal. Of all the things he was expecting to do for the night, sitting at a lavishly-filled dinner table in the only decent casual clothes he thought to pack and eating what could be an expensive olive wagyu steak in a Mediterranean style mansion somewhere a few ways off from the Old City were not in his list. Still, he cannot really complain. The food is goddamn heavenly. Everyone is having a good time: Leti is enjoying a plate of strawberry shortcake with Victor; Nathan is on his third (or probably fourth) glass of red wine, indulging Greta with a delightful discussion about the discoveries he and Sam made during their travels in South America.

Meanwhile, sitting across from Sam is Darcy—and god help him, she is a sight for sore eyes in the white floral dress Leti chose for her back in Amsterdam—serving herself another piece of shepherd’s pie, happily chatting with their unexpected host: Lola Griffin.

Turns out, Darcy had no idea Lola was coming over. During their brief discussion back in the hotel with the others, she explained that she had been expecting someone else when she and Nathan went to The Shuk—a good friend of Lola’s who is working in the museum—but was instead greeted by Lola herself. After finding out that both Javier Bernal and Gabriel Roman are involved in all of this rotten business, she ultimately decided to fly all the way from London to Jerusalem to personally aid Darcy in this dangerous shit they all have gotten themselves into. She even managed to secure her father’s help and brought some of his men—which explained the number of heavily-armed bodyguards at her employ. (“I should have poisoned that son of a bitch when I had the chance,” Lola told Darcy at some point as she gave everyone a tour around the house—her mother’s house, apparently—and even as she said it, Sam knew she meant every word.) 

As for the matter of their problem in finding a way to access Rembrandt’s painting in the Israel Museum, that task is as good as done. Much to everyone’s convenience, Lola’s mother is a major stakeholder in the museum, and the extremely good news is that Lola has been allowed to “borrow” the painting and take it outside of its premises to her own conservation studio for her “further study.” Whatever excuse Lola had said seemed to have worked in their favour. The only bad news—and Sam doesn’t know if it’s even considered bad news given the privilege they already have—is that the painting won’t be available at her disposal until the next day.

And since Darcy is determined to get ahead of two murderous sons of bitches, this little setback puts a minor hiccup in her meticulously crafted plan. 

Hence, Lola arranged this fancy dinner as a way to apologize for the short delay. Sam can only imagine how she makes it up to people should she ever find herself causing a massive inconvenience.

Sam pours himself a glass of whiskey, briefly glances at his watch to check the time. It’s only half past nine. He is sure Lola has asked him a question about his time in Peru, and all he could give is a short, half-hearted answer. As far as fancy dinners go, this lovely gesture of Lola’s is one for the books, and yet Sam cannot bring himself to be mentally present to enjoy any of it. He likes to think it’s because of Lola’s bodyguards. Their presence in the dining room is kind of unsettling. And there is still the matter of figuring out the mechanism of the temple key that bothers him. Or maybe—

Well, who is he kidding?

Looking at Darcy, it’s hard not to think about the end in sight. The choice he has to make. The prospect of leaving looms like a specter, a dreadful menace with claws ready to strip him away from her. He allows the thought for a moment. He builds his resolve, steels himself to believe that he can walk away from all of this once it ends. He can leave it all behind. He has always done that before. He can do it all over again.

And yet when he looks at her, he is wax over fire. His resolve melts at that hard-earned smile of hers, the warmth of it that she hardly spares before but now she saves for him a tenderness so painful that his heart threatens to burst. At the other end of the table, Victor cracks a joke, and the vibrant cackle of her laughter seals the deal. All at once he is back at her mercy. One look from her and he is prepared to give it all up, ready to pay the price, determined to go through scorched earth to change his whole life for her. He may end up in flames, but he doesn’t mind. He’s always liked the taste of smoke. 

Frankly, he wants to hate himself for it. 

Except he can’t. He _couldn’t_. It’s too late to turn her out when she has made a home inside his body. She has made her place somewhere inside of him. She reminds him of someone who storms into your life like an unassuming stranger casually barging into your apartment and right away does you a kindness and takes out the trash, straightens the unevenly arranged furniture, changes the dirty sheets in the bed, flattens the ripples of an old carpet that you barely notice, tears open the windows to let the light in, and it is only when the mess has been tidied, when the flowers on your unused vase have added colour to the emptiness of your room will you realize that you could never downplay her presence anymore, that you would end up asking for more than an hour, a week, a month, a lifetime of this.

And it happened just like that. Meeting Darcy wasn’t part of the plan. He didn’t plan on wanting her, either. God knows he didn’t plan on feeling something like this, something so cruel and terrifying and true, to be so attached to her the way he could never be with anyone else. 

Someone rests a hand on his shoulder. “Everything okay, Sam?”

Sam turns with a slight jolt and sees Lola, one elbow resting on the back of his seat, looking at him with a curious expression on her face.

“The guys want to hang out a bit,” she says cheerily with a smile. “You don’t want to join us?”

He looks around and realizes that he’s the only one left at the table. Everyone is slowly drifting out of the doorway. Glasses of undrunk scotch and plates of barely touched cakes and pastries sit before him. 

“No, I’ll come with—sorry about that,” he says sheepishly, shaking his head, unfolding the napkin on his lap and dropping it onto his empty plate as he rises out of his seat.

Sam follows Lola out of the dining room and into a nicely decorated parlour where everyone has settled. Even this room remains faithful to the Southern European aesthetic: cream-coloured sofas, printed carpets, an ancient reading chair by a column of bookshelves, a black Steinway grand piano. As he stands hovering by the doorway, he spots Nathan having a nice chat with Greta as they tinker with an old phonograph at the corner of the room that plays a sweet and syrupy version of _The Girl From Ipanema_. Victor—already mellowed by his third glass of bourbon, no less—is slow dancing with Leticia, playfully letting her twirl in that yellow dress they bought for her back in Bijenkorf. Meanwhile, Darcy is sitting quietly in a reading chair, watching this father-daughter dance with an almost lonesome smile.

“She isn’t all that tough, you know,” says Lola, sidling up to him with two glasses of scotch. She offers him the other glass. He takes it.

“Well, I find that hard to believe.” He swirls his drink, takes a careful sip. It’s one heck of an expensive liquor, Sam can tell by its taste. 

“Then you better believe it. Which is why if you hurt her, I will send an army for you.”

Sam breathes out a laugh. Coming from Lola, he knows that is not an empty threat, but he still laughs nonetheless. “So I assume you did the same thing with her cheating ex-boyfriend?”

“It’s kind of you not to mention his name, but yes, I did. Well, _almost_ did.” She smiles. “But Darcy found out and told me there’s no need to resort to unnecessary violence and begged me not to get involved.” 

“But you’re getting involved now.”

Lola shrugs. “I have to. Besides, I wouldn’t hear the end of it from my sister if I didn’t help Darcy out. And this is not just about Javi anymore. Gabriel Roman’s involved, too.”

“Oh. Right.” Sam stares at his drink. “But honestly,” he says after a slight pause, “if ever I end up hurting her, I won’t be able to forgive myself that I might come begging for _your_ army to end me.”

Lola says nothing, but the wide grin that crosses her face that flashes her perfect pearly teeth says a lot. 

Sam is somehow slightly miffed. He has seen that expression before. “What now?”

“Oh, nothing. I assume Greta has already given you a hard time?”

“Christ. Not you, too.”

“No, no!” Lola laughs. She takes a sip of her drink. “Oh god, to be fair, I’m no Greta—she knows everything. She’s like an elven sage. Even she knows my personal life just by looking at me from head to foot.”

“Tell me about it.”

A comfortable pause. In the middle of the room, the music still swells. Leticia bursts into laughter as Victor now coaxes Greta to dance with them. Even Darcy cracks a laughter that somehow makes Sam smile. 

Lola looks at him, and then at Darcy. She looks down on her drink and smiles to herself. “You know,” she says, nudging him by the shoulder, “I like you for her. I can tell how much you care about her. And I haven’t seen her talk about someone the same way she holds you in a high regard.”

This piques Sam’s curiosity. “Wait, she talks about me? To you?”

“Well, yeah.” Lola beams a sneaky smile. “But that’s all you need to know.” 

Lola pats an affirming hand on his shoulder. Sam watches her walk over to Darcy, leaving him on his own by the doorway. Her words still echo in his ear. _She talks about you. She holds you in a high regard._ He tosses back the rest of his drink and lets the liquor burn his throat. 

Back in their hotel room, Sam is eager to hit the sack as he makes his bed that is the couch with extra pillows when Darcy emerges from the bathroom, freshly showered and drying her hair with a towel, wearing an oversized black shirt that falls a little too high above her knees, exposing a good portion of her thighs. Their eyes meet for a moment, but he looks away. Looking away from her when she looks like _that_ happens to take monumental effort.

As he fluffs the pillow and readies himself to finally flop down the couch, a warm hand rests on his back.

“Is everything alright, Samuel?” 

He turns. Darcy is looking up at him with such a worried and wounded expression on her face.

Sam swallows. “Um—yeah,” he says gingerly, reaching for the back of his neck. She is standing so close to him that he is caught by the familiar fragrance of her shampoo. Sweet lavender and rosemary. He awkwardly clears his throat. “I’m alright. You?”

“Good. It’s just… you’ve been awfully quiet during dinner.” She lowers her eyes, absently twisting her obelisk and the round silver pendant between restless fingers. “It’s unlike you. You hardly spoke at length when Lola asked you about your travels. And you always liked talking about those, so.”

Sam stares at her. In a short period of time, it’s beyond him how Darcy could ever be so fluent with the language of his silences, how easily she can translate it. She considers his quiet moments with such an affectionately forensic attentiveness that somehow he feels unusually important, as if they have known each other forever and he is buoyed by the simple thought of being completely and truly known by her.

He gently touches her cheek, sweeps a loose strand of her hair away from her face. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“To be clear, you didn’t worry me.” She looks away. “I’m just not used to you not being your usual gregarious self.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Jane.”

“I suppose that makes the two of us.”

A cheeky smile curls from his lips. He slides his hands on her waist, slowly pulling her closer. “I guess I’m still a little tired from the long flight. And helping Greta translate texts all morning kind of murdered my brain, too, so.”

“Oh. Okay.” She holds his gaze for a little while longer. “So there’s nothing else on your mind?”

_You. These days it’s always you._ For a fraction of a second, he almost confesses the whole truth, but quickly decides to keep it to himself. _Not now, not now, not now._ Instead, he shakes his head and says, “No, nothing else.” Then: “And you? You sure you’re fine?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“It’s… I noticed, when you were watching Victor and Leti, you were kind of…”

“Oh, that.” She rests her head on his chest. “Just hit by nostalgia, is all. My dad used to dance with us a lot, Emma and I. Somehow seeing Victor and Leticia reminded me a lot about it. They both seem so…” She trails off, falls in a lost pause.

Sam lifts her head to meet his eyes. “Hey, Jane? You still here with me?”

She blinks. She nods, forces out a smile. “Yeah, I’m sorry. Um, Samuel?”

“Yeah?”

“You know that it’s completely okay with me if you sleep in the bed, right?”

Sam sheepishly scratches a cheek. “Well, yeah. I guess,” he says a little too feebly.

Before he can say anything else, Darcy grabs all his sheets and pillows on the couch, takes his hand, and guides him to the bed. “You don’t have to settle sleeping in discomfort for my sake, okay?” she says. “Just… don’t try anything nasty.”

“Nasty like what exactly?” He quirks a brow and smiles. He sits on the edge of the mattress, looking at Darcy in a way that suggests all the nasty things he could do to her.

She falters. He knows that she _knows_ where he is getting at, and the realization that she chose the wrong word hits her. “Okay, first of all—“ she gestures a hand, her face slightly tinged pink— “by nasty I mean, you know—like you hogging all the sheets,” she says a little nervously. “And snoring. Or taking up all the space. That sort and absolutely _nothing_ else.”

Sam nods, his smile broader with more amusement than the last. “Right, sure. So—“ he pushes back the comforter, slides into the middle of the bed and leans back into the pile of pillows— “c’mere.” He pats the sheets and gestures for her to join him.

Darcy stares at him. “What are you doing?” she asks as if he has gone insane and slaughtered an animal and drenched their sheets bloody. 

“Uh, I’m inviting you to cuddle and sleep?”

She frowns, firmly crosses her arms over her chest. “But I don’t like cuddling.”

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I _am_ serious. And I can never sleep when someone is—”

“Then maybe the last person who tried to do it with you did it all wrong.” He pulls that shit-eating smirk. He cannot believe that there is a single person on this goddamn planet who actually _hates_ cuddling. He attempts to convince her again. “C’mon. It’s just a hug. But in bed.”

“No.”

“Jane.”

“What?”

“I promise I’m not gonna do _anything._ No other nasty business as you eloquently put it. And I don’t bite. Unless, well, you ask nicely—“

_“Samuel.”_

“I’m kidding. Get in here.”

Darcy considers him for a moment. “Okay,” she relents finally. “Fine.”

She gets into bed and awkwardly tries to settle herself right by his side, leaning her head on his shoulder. He helps her ease into it—he wraps one arm around her shoulder and gently pulls her even close, letting her head rest against his chest instead. He feels her tense a little, but slowly and surely, she relaxes in his embrace. He plants a kiss on the crown of her head, her hair still partly damp.

“So? How’s this experience so far?”

She curls into him a little closer. “You really smell nice.”

It’s a good thing that she is not looking at him because he can feel his face burning. “Why, uh—thank you,” he says, forcing himself to sound casual. “Now may I ask as to who is the prick who made you so vehemently against this? Was it Javier because—”

“No, not him.” She lets out a small laugh. “Not anyone, really. I suppose I wasn’t just a big fan of it. I dunno. But this is… this is actually nice.”

“And you’re not saying that to be polite?”

“Hey, of course not—” She shifts but she ends up elbowing him on the rib that he jolts and winces. “Oh god, I didn’t mean to!” she says in a panic. “I’m so sorry—”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Sam whimpers. “It’s a privilege to be hurt by you.”

Darcy rolls her eyes just as always. “You really don’t run out of clever things to say, do you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Right.” She props her head with her hands over his chest so she can look up at him. “But I do mean it,” she tells him. “This being nice.”

“Well,” he says, moving a gentle hand over her hair, “I’m glad to have you converted from your very outrageous anti-cuddling belief. Even at the expense of my broken rib.”

She laughs. He can feel the quake of her laughter against his skin and he adores it. Frankly, he adores all of her.

“Can I ask you something?” asks Sam after a comfortable pause.

“Yeah?”

“What’s the story with your necklace?”

“Oh. You mean this?” She lifts the pendant between her face and his. “My dad gave it to me when I turned seventeen. He knows I’m not really a necklace person, but insisted I’m the one who ought to keep it. 'It’s the only one in the world, just as there’s only one of you,’ he said. He could be a real sap, my father.”

“But I have to agree with him. There’s no one else like you.”

A look of surprise passes her face, but she averts her gaze, chews on her bottom lip. The smile fades and is slowly replaced by her usual thinking frown.

Sam pinches her chin to get her attention. “What’s the matter?”

“Now can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Do you always say these sweet things to women you cuddle?”

Sam considers her and finds himself smiling. Why that question brings him to smile at her, he has no idea, but he finds it slightly amusing. “You might find this hard to believe but no, I don’t,” he says. He is actually being truthful that it unnerves him for a moment. “I hardly even talk to any of them like this, to be honest. It’s just, you know, all dirty—”

“Yes, I get it.” She groans. Rolls her eyes again. _“Men.”_

Sam laughs at the pure, utter derision of her tone. “I know, I know—we can be disgusting,” he admits.

“Now it makes me wonder how poor Leticia is putting up with you and Nathan.”

“Oh, don’t worry—she never fails to warn the girls away from us. That’s how much she loves me and my brother.”

This time, they both laugh. “You three are awfully close,” she says fondly.

“Yeah, you can say that.” He is absently tracing gentle circles on her back. “She may be a feisty little tiger cub scaring our girlfriends away, but she’s a good kid. She always means well. And to think she’s been through what Nate and I have been through but worse… I just… I wish Victor found her sooner.” He lets out a wistful sigh, a feeling like he has finally unloaded a weight on his chest. A freeing exhale. He hardly ever talks about his family to anyone, or how much Leti as a little sister means to him, but with Darcy, she makes it so easy to be so transparent, to be so at peace with his own affections.

“But hey.” She pushes his hair away from his forehead, traces his cheek with a soft, delicate finger. “Victor found her. And now she has a family in the three of you.”

He smiles. “Yeah. You’re right.”

They spend the rest of the night talking about almost anything. Her silly little hobbies, his favourite colour, his dreams and hers. He tells her how much he loves the colour blue now thanks to her eyes. She laughs it off. He tells her how he wants to discover an actual pirate’s treasure. She tells him how much she’s eager to graduate and curate an exhibit. How badly she wants to travel. How he promises to take her in all the cities she wants to go. Still, he regales her the stories of the places he’s been to and he watches her beam. They talk more about their families, their old lovers, their bad decisions. The night stretches into endless stories upon stories, laughter upon laughter, until finally—surprisingly—she falls fast asleep curled into him, her face resting against his chest. 

And it is in that moment, as he listens to her soft breathing, as he holds her close with her body keeping him warm, that the feeling of fear he had felt that morning at the thought of leaving her is not quite fear. It seizes his chest in waves. His heart swells with it. He knows it is something else and he knows the word for it. He is only afraid to say it out loud.


	8. Darcy Kingsley

In Lola’s surprisingly massive childhood home, there sits a lovely, brightly-lit space of a conservation studio in which Darcy, well-rested for the first time in a long time and still full from a heavy breakfast, fretfully watches Samuel and Nathan examine the back of the canvas of _St. Peter in Prison._ For someone who has all the good reasons to be in a chipper mood, she looks rather miserable. Seeing the painting up close and personal—and privately at that, too—should have offered her an exhilarating thrill equivalent to that of a hiker reaching the peak of a mountain, or a diver discovering a lost sunken ship. But now, as she stares at it in all of its soft and sublime glory, she feels rather empty. Not even a little marvel. 

Instead, the sight of it fills her with a vague sense of dread.

“You look like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” Lola stands right next to her, coffee mug in hand, the scent of it wafting nicely all over the room. She is wearing her hair in a bun, showing all her curls. “You okay?”

Darcy nods, forces herself to smile. “Yes, absolutely.”

Lola sighs. She gives her a withering look. “What did Sam do this time?”

“Hey, I heard that,” Samuel chimes in and peeks from behind the canvas as he adjusts it on the easel. “For the record, I didn’t do anything—whatever you two ladies are talking about—”

“Will you please focus for a minute here?” Nathan cuts him off and slaps his brother’s arm with the back of his hand. “Help me with this—take this off as carefully as you could.”

Samuel makes a face. “Fine, fine.”

Lola laughs. The brothers resume unlatching the canvas’s wooden wedges. 

“So,” she says in between sips of her coffee, “you’re really not going to tell me what’s going on with you today?”

“Like I said, I’m fine,” insists Darcy, keeping her tone as neutral as she possibly could. She gives Lola a firm look. “And trust me—Samuel did nothing. I’m just… a bit anxious about what we’re going to find in there, is all.”

“Right.” Lola takes a sip of her coffee and considers Darcy for a quiet, careful moment. Darcy averts her gaze. She knows all too well that she cannot hide anything from Lola. For what it’s worth, Lola has a good nose when it comes to sniffing out lies. Not that what she had said was a lie—she really does feel anxious. That part is certainly true.

But the part where Samuel has nothing to do it—to put it mildly—is a load of bullshit.

To be fair, Samuel didn’t do anything wrong before they all got here. In fact, he had been nothing but pleasant during breakfast. He was back in his usual spirits, even joining Nathan in indulging her mother with amusing accounts of their childhood and how a certain Father Duffy encouraged them to start a magic show in the orphanage just to keep them out of trouble. Somehow, listening to Samuel delight everyone in the table with their anecdotes simply reminded her of the night before. 

And that night was nothing less than wonderful. As he held her like no one else has ever done before in her life, he had confided in her the days of his youth, his dreams, all his wants in a feverish earnestness to tell her everything there is to know about him. And she did the same in return. It was only then that she fully acknowledged how much she genuinely liked talking to him. She’s no longer a stranger to the generosity of his company, how he made it so easy for her to slip into the comfort of sharing, how he created a space between them that was always so light and honest and bearable. She did not even mind it when they talked about their old lovers. Even as he asked her the things she did as Ghost, she found no reluctance to share it. She hasn’t talked to anyone about it before, this identity she kept a secret, or why she even found an enjoyable hobby in coding in the first place (which, all things considered, was fairly normal as opposed to her being fond of making homemade soap, something that he now knew, too), and how she began rallying to make things right and stirring trouble with troublesome institutions. Not even Javi understood it. Not when he never saw her as such, as if Ghost was a separate entity from the girl he fucked every night. Darcy was only a girlfriend; Ghost was the unseen business partner. Never one and the same.

But with Samuel, she is _both._ With him, it felt as if Ghost finally inhabited a body. And she felt it, this extraordinary pain and pleasure of finally being seen, of knowing the terrifying prospect that someone on this wretched earth truly knew her. They had shed their screens. There was no longer a veneer of pretense to be had, no walls of civilities that stood between them. In their bed last night, it was just them and their stories of their messy, little lives.

Which is why as she now watches Samuel handle the painting by himself while Lola and Nathan drift to the wide working table to discuss the possible mechanism of the key parts, she is certain that he has everything to do with the shadow of unreasonable uneasiness that has taken root in her chest for days. He glances back at her, and the weight of it throbs. She cannot understand it. Even as she forces a smile back at him, she struggles to identify the horrible twist, and she is desperate to name it as though she is diagnosing symptoms of an unknown illness. She wants to get rid of it. The irrational feeling might as well be a tumor, a barbed wire, a violent hurricane. And the ache of it looms over her like heavy storm clouds gathering over the horizon, a brewing tempest, like something is finally coming to an end…

And that’s when it hits her.

Perhaps that’s the thing. For someone who plans everything carefully and thoroughly in a nauseating perfection, Darcy feels ridiculously stupid for not realizing the one obvious thing that has been staring at her face from the very start. _This will soon end._ And this is exactly the kind of feeling she’s been protecting herself from. The helpless attachment. This terrible and terrifying want. She hates herself for having been so foolish and reckless, for permitting herself to lower the bridge, for letting her guard down, for ushering him in only for him to see her, to unravel her, for making her want him more. _Once this job is over, he will leave and we will part ways and we will go back to our lives like none of this ever happened. Like we never happened. Like I never meant anything—_

“Shit.” Samuel emerges from the other side of the painting, and the sound of his voice somehow halts the screeching spiral inside her head. Well, at least the sullen expression on his face does it. He stares at all of them. “There’s nothing in here,” he says grimly.

Darcy blinks. She and Lola exchange a worried look. 

Nathan’s expression sours. “You can’t be serious.”

His brother says nothing and only shakes his head. Nathan rushes to inspect the back of the painting to see it with his own eyes, with both Darcy and Lola following suit. 

Samuel’s right. The space behind the backing board is empty.

Then, just as Darcy is about to mourn this dead end, a wide, amused smile creeps on Samuel’s face. He pulls out a small bundle of letters and the last piece of the key from behind his back.

Nathan scoffs and manages to exhale a small laugh of relief. “You’re such a fucking asshole.” 

“Well, like I always say—takes one to know one.” Samuel laughs. “The looks on your faces were priceless.”

“And so are the contents of these letters.” Lola snatches the bundle from Samuel. “No wonder you drive Darcy out of her wits from time to time,” she says wryly. 

“Massive understatement,” Darcy corrects. She begins to inspect the letters as Lola lays it all out on the table. “I’d daresay he does it _all_ the time, I’m beginning to regret ever meeting him.” 

Samuel shoots her a cheeky look that says, _I know you don’t really mean that._

And she gives him a look like… well, for the first time, says nothing. It is empty and vacant and indifferent. She swiftly lowers her eyes. Something has gone cold inside her.

“Don’t worry,” says Nathan as he circles around the table and stands next to Darcy, resting an affirming hand over her shoulder, “I’m sharing the pain with you because I live with this guy on a daily basis.” He gives her a little nudge. “I don’t know how you’re putting up with him given the two of you are roomed together, but thanks for not murdering him in his sleep.”

“Hey, to be fair,” Samuel begins defensively, “Jane and I have been getting along just fine now.” He turns to look at her, and something in his smile has been mired by concern. “Isn’t that right?” 

She does not look at his direction. “Yeah, I suppose,” she answers simply. 

“See?” He beams. “And besides, I have never—and will _never_ —do anything to hurt her and—“

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that. You’ve got quite a way with women, and you will hurt _me_ soon enough, as you always do with everyone you screw over.” 

As soon as the words leave out of her mouth, she is aware—even as she said it—that as far as her conversational gambits go, it lacks her usual tactful cleverness. It is, however, full of her capacity to be a scathing, thoughtless bitch who runs her mouth as her feelings command. She immediately regrets it. She realizes how brutally unfair and callous that remark had been to wield his past against him like a weapon, against his genuine sincerity towards her, his playful jests, his numerous acts of kindness.

No one says a word. The silence is painful. And for someone who always has a wise comeback or two up in his sleeve, not even Samuel has anything to say. His smile has disappeared. She can tell that he is ready to throw an equally scathing response, but somehow, he doesn’t. The betrayed look of his silence is good enough to shatter her.

“Wow, would you look at that,” begins Nathan, attempting to defuse the tensed silence. “Someone just successfully made my brother speechless.” He turns to Darcy with an amused smile. “Are you guys keeping score of this because—”

“You know what, I just remembered I have the best coffee upstairs!” says Lola excitedly with a clap of a hand and her beaming smile. “So just a thought, but how about we all wait for Victor and Greta and Leticia in the parlour before we start figuring out these letters, yeah? Their tour around the Church of the Holy Sepulchre should be done by now and they should be returning here any minute.” She hooks an arm around Samuel and does the same thing with Nathan, and as Darcy watches Lola slowly drag the two men out of the studio, Lola beckons for her to follow while mouthing a very clear, _We’ll talk later._

But Darcy does not follow. She stands there, frozen in all her remorse. She has always been best prepared to face the worst of things. The best things, however, she always seems to be prepared to sabotage. Stupid, silly flight response.

She squeezes her eyes shut. She swallows the sob that simmers down her throat, her bitter words still linger in her mouth.

  
  
  
  


Later that afternoon, they all gather at the parlour, huddling around the coffee table, staring at three oddly-shaped parts of a wooden key. Or more like a puzzle. The only thing they have in common is the silver inlay of swirls and curves surrounding its mahogany surface. One close look and it is easy to tell that these complex little things are still in perfect condition even after all these centuries.

“I think it’s one of those interlock puzzles,” says Lola matter-of-factly. She takes a key part—the one they recently found within _St. Peter in Prison—_ and inspects it closely. She shows it to Darcy, who is sitting right next to her. “But this set looks more complicated, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” agrees Darcy. Her face crinkles into concentration. “Though I wonder how this puzzle thing could ever open something like... a temple.”

“Well, since this is King Solomon’s temple we’re talking about, maybe it’s a test of wisdom,” answers Samuel, carefully shifting on his seat on the opposite couch as Leticia has comfortably taken a nap on his lap. (The tour around the Old City with Victor and her mother must have exhausted her, Darcy decides.) All things considered, it surprises Darcy how Samuel is gracious enough to even acknowledge her, let alone grant her this kind of civility after her spiteful remark earlier. Professional courtesy, perhaps. Still, coming from him, she is keenly aware she does not deserve any of it. “I know his existence in general has been hotly debated considering how minimal historical evidence has been found over the years,” he continues, “but if we take into account other stories about him, puzzles of this sort would make sense. He was known for his wisdom, going so far as to test even his own court.”

“The Judgment of Solomon,” adds Nathan. He, too, tries to shift a little, trying his best not to wake Leticia as he is sitting right by her side. “In which he resolves the dispute of two women claiming to be the mother of the same child by commanding his men to cut the said child in half.”

“And by doing so one woman promptly renounces her claim, proving that she’d rather give up her own child than having it killed, hence, declaring her to be the true mother.” Samuel rests one arm against the sofa’s armrest, props his chin on a fist. “If he’s the type of guy to go through extreme measures to draw out and uncover the truth, it makes me wonder what he’d do to even protect it.”

“And what exactly is he protecting in this temple, anyway?” asks Lola curiously. “Forgive me, this is already outside my field of expertise. I mean, I was here for Rembrandt, but I didn’t think an artist of his renown ever dabbled in these sorts of things.”

“It’s fine—we’re just as surprised as you are when we found out, too,” says Nathan. “But anyway, the Ark of the Covenant is housed in the First Temple, so there’s that worth protecting, among many other things—”

“Nope, it’s the _only_ thing worth protecting,” Samuel corrects. “Solomon already shits gold and he’s wealthy enough to build a temple made out of it. What else is there for him but to preserve God’s favour?”

Nathan nods thoughtfully. “Well, that’s a good point. Except he strayed away from that favour given he was obsessed with women and fell in love with many which, now that I think about it, sounds like someone I know whose ass has been dragged— _ow!”_

Samuel sneaks a slap at the back of Nathan’s head that he winces helplessly. Nathan—still careful not to wake Leticia up—only returns the gesture by shooting Samuel a murderous scowl. 

Now Darcy feels ten times worse. She squeezes her hands tightly together. She hides the guilt with a smile.

“Well,” says Lola, “so much for him being a wise king, I suppose.” She eyes the other pieces on the table. “But now, how do we get into crackin’ these… puzzle things?”

“I’d say I’ll have to leave this business of figuring out puzzles to you young ones,” says Victor, leaning back against the armchair and lighting himself a cigar. “But seriously—if Rembrandt managed to put it together, he should have at least left some kind of manual on how to get this fixed.”

“Good news, Victor—because he actually did.” Sitting at the reading chair, Greta looks up from the stack of Rembrandt’s letters she had been busily and quietly poring over since her return. “I’ve been looking for this on the first two batches of letters we uncovered because I’ll be damned that this man didn’t keep proper documentation of it,” she says, “but here—” she sets a piece of a much more ancient-looking paper than the rest of the letters over the coffee table— “it seems that this key is something that should be placed on a pedestal to open the temple's door. And whatever that is, it should look like a cube.”

Darcy sits forward and studies the page along with the rest. The sketch on the paper is exactly what her mother says: a drawing of a cube, one decorated with a seamless floral pattern at that. Rembrandt seemed to have taken into great consideration to draw the elaborate design in painstaking detail. He also names the three pieces accordingly: _Belshazzar, Jeremiah, Peter._ And then there’s a list:

  1. _Slide Belshazzar left twice over Peter_
  2. _Push Jeremiah down once under Belshazzar_
  3. _Twist Peter right thrice_
  4. _Don’t insert the heart_



“I take it he named the parts based on the painting he hid it from,” says Nathan.

“Precisely,” confirms Greta. “And he also left another instruction. Because here—” she directs everyone’s attention at the bottom right corner of the page— “he has scribbled a list of figures like that of a skeleton and dart—which I’m assuming translates to a poison dart—and with a title _valstrik_ above it. My Dutch is a little rusty, but I’m certain that means _trap.”_

Everyone but Greta exchanges a worried look, a startled gasp.

“So you mean this thing is rigged?” Nathan asks, aghast.

“Most likely, yes.” Greta purses her lips, considers all of them for a moment. “So I would advise handling this thing with as much caution as you could.”

Victor draws deeply from his cigar, blows a heavy cloud of smoke. “But how are we sure that these instructions would actually solve the puzzle?” he asks dubiously. “As far as I remember from the first letter we found, he doesn’t want anyone to find this place.”

“Victor’s got a point,” agrees Samuel. He is absently playing with Leticia’s braid, sweeps a gentle hand over her hair. “His directions might be exactly what leads us to the trap—”

“I’ve got the feeling that we’re supposed to do the _opposite_ direction of what he wants us to do here to find what we’re looking for,” Darcy suggests. “Like, left means right? Down means up, and vice versa? I mean, Rembrandt did warn us precisely to leave this place be on the first letter that we found, so if we’re here, he’d most likely want us to _not_ figure out the key and let us fall into its trap. And to think he scattered all of his written accounts to paintings he has already sold… he must really be determined to keep it all a secret in the case anyone comes across it.”

“Right. That’s a fairly astute observation.” Samuel nods pensively. “Well, I can definitely see Rembrandt being determined to push people away, throwing them off. You know, from finding this place.” 

Darcy blinks. It is clever of him to hide the dagger in his words in plain sight. “Of course, right,” she says stiffly. “That was probably his intention. But I suppose he meant well. Perhaps he must have been hurt in that journey and so he doesn’t want anyone else to experience the same pain.”

“Sure, sure, sure. But I have to say—since dead men tell no tales—he might have at least considered writing a clear explanation, shared his thoughts as to what kind of pain he had been through so we could all understand what it’s like, yeah? But instead, he seems to be intent on lashing out on people who care enough to find the temple by leaving this key like a ticking time bomb with a poison dart—”

“Oh that’s just plain rubbish. That’s why he had to keep it. Because he was already trying to protect others.”

“Was he, really? Or was he only trying to protect himself?”

Nathan cuts them off. “We’re still talking about Rembrandt and Solomon’s Temple here, right—”

“Yes!” they answer sharply in chorus. 

Samuel turns to Darcy and smiles that smug smile of his. “But here’s the thing: at the end of the day, that’s not exactly his choice to make, right? If people choose to give a shit to find this almost non-existent archaeological goldmine? Because whether this talented and beautiful and pain-in-the-ass genius likes it or not, there will be people who would choose to care to go looking. There will be people who would care so much and so deeply even if it hurts them. Even if it _kills_ them.”

Darcy holds his gaze in a moment that almost stretches like an eternity. An awkward silence falls like a leaden plate. She is aware that she has no right to be furious at this point considering the things she had said, but it is almost excruciatingly infuriating how he has made his point so casually even with a sleeping child on his lap. But he has made his point all the same, and he has driven it well.

It takes her a while to realize that everyone has been watching their discourse turn into a ruthless sparring match. She sees her mother and Lola trade a meaningful glance. Nathan and Victor share the same look, too.

Meanwhile, shifting over Samuel’s lap, Leticia stirs awake from her sleep.

“Hello,” she greets groggily, rubbing her eyes. The looks on everyone’s faces must have startled her that she perks up and goes: “Is everyone okay? What happened?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Spaghetti.” Samuel loops an arm around her shoulder. His smile returns with a charge of excitement as he recounts to her the story of King Solomon, the key puzzle, Rembrandt, everything that has happened so far.

Darcy uneasily clears her throat. She turns to look at her mother, Lola, Nathan. “So, anyway,” she says, “um, going back about the instructions on putting this together—”

“Do the opposite of what’s written on this page. Got it,” says Nathan. 

“But I’m not even sure if it’s going to work, you might hurt yourself—”

“Hey, it’s fine!” Nathan slaps an assuring hand on her arm. “I mean, it’s _not_ fine that I may potentially be shot with a poison dart, what I mean is it’s okay if I’ll be the one to put it together. And your theory actually makes sense about the instructions. I trust your judgment on this.” He flashes her a confident smile. “Besides, if I do get hurt… don’t you worry, I won’t ask you to patch me up because my brother will kill me—”

“And I will kill you if you don’t stop talking,” Samuel retorts tartly.

Nathan laughs. “See? Anyway.” He eagerly rubs his hands together. “So how about I give it a shot?”

Darcy stares at him for a moment. “Um, sure. I guess,” she says uncertainly.

“Oh but before you do, kid,” Victor tells Nathan, “you might want to step away as far as possible from us. Especially since you’re sitting next to my Leticia.”

“Yeah, yeah—I know.” Nathan takes the rest of the pieces along with the letter and stands at a distance, near the phonograph. “Wish me luck.”

Everyone watches Nathan breathlessly at the edge of their seats as he makes his attempt to arrange the puzzle. The moment is painfully agonizing. He follows Darcy’s advice by doing the exact opposite of what is indicated in the letter, and then there is a soft click as he successfully fits a piece to its proper place. He waits for something to happen but… there’s nothing. No poison darts come shooting out of it, so that’s a good sign. 

The whole room exhales a collective sigh of relief. 

Nathan continues to do the rest. He arranges the pieces, combining it as carefully as he can. One soft click of success goes one after another. Soon enough, he manages to form the cube. But somehow, the look on his face is nowhere near triumphant.

He frowns. “I think we’re missing a piece.”

Nathan returns to the couch, shows everyone what seems to be a completed puzzle—a cube the size of a grown man’s fist—with all its intricate floral inlay finally arranged together. He places it on the coffee table. They all exchange a bewildered look at each other. As far as they are all concerned, all parts are already accounted for.

“I don’t see anything missing here,” says a clearly baffled Lola. “Perhaps that’s it?”

Nathan shakes his head. “Look—” he points to a narrow, four-sided hole in the middle of the cube— “something has to go through here. And the poison darts we’re talking about? It’s here—” he turns the cube clockwise, runs a cautious finger along a row of tiny, almost minuscule openings on its corner— “these shoots more like needles than darts. Which leaves me now with this.” He sets the ancient page down at the table, points at the last instruction on the list. “I haven’t done that part yet. What’s the heart? There’s nothing written about it here.”

An intensely concentrated silence. Outside, the sound of whirring vehicles hums.

“Wait, I do remember Rembrandt noting something like it in one of his letters,” says Samuel. He gets up. “It should be—”

“Here.” Greta draws out a piece of letter from the pile and hands it to him. “It’s the one we found in the _Belshazzar’s Feast._ It’s only a brief mention, though.”

Samuel scans the letter. _“Its heart stays with me,”_ he reads out loud. He pauses. He begins tapping his fingers against his chin, paces around the room. “Greta, you mentioned you and Henry found Rembrandt’s journal, right?”

“Yes. My husband kept it at his person at all times. I’m afraid it’s one of the many things he lost when… the incident happened.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright. I—”

“The little square hole here looks like it could fit the pendant from Darcy’s necklace,” Leticia says out of nowhere as she sits on the floor, rests her arms over the coffee table, curiously and closely studying the cube. “At least it’s little enough to fit, I think.”

Nathan snatches the cube back and away from Leticia. “Lettuce, if we stick just about any little thing here then poison needles may fly out of it and kill us.”

“Fine. I was just saying an observation.” She sneers at Nathan and settles to sit by Victor’s side.

Another thoughtful silence sits in their midst. 

Then comes a startling exhale of laughter.

“I’m sorry,” says Greta, wiping the sides of her eyes as she does. “Oh goodness. Henry, always with these tricks up his sleeve.”

Darcy turns to her mother, lifts an incredulous brow. “Mum, what are you on about?”

“Our clever little Leticia guessed it right.” She smiles at Leticia, who proudly beams at her all the same. “The gift your father gave you on your birthday,” says her mother. “And his note. I should have known.”

Darcy says nothing but an illuminating thought dawns on her. She remembers the words in her father’s journal, the words that hardly made sense to her. Her chest tightens. Her hands find her obelisk pendant, lifting it from underneath the collar of her shirt. Twists it between nervous fingers. Her heart twists just the same. 

She takes off her necklace. Still uncertain, she looks at Nathan and asks: “May I?”

Nathan hands her the cube without question. Not wanting to accidentally send flying needles to everyone else, Darcy drifts off to the far end of the room by the piano. She can feel everyone holding their breath as she cautiously inserts the obelisk into the hole in the middle of the cube.

A soft click.

It is as Leticia said. It’s a perfect fit.

They all look at each other, everyone positively thrilled.

“Holy shit,” exhales Nathan, laughing along with his brother. “Lettuce, you’re a genius!”

“Just as clever as your mother,” says Victor under his breath as he tugs a beaming Leticia in a proud and eager hug.

All at once, the silver carvings emit a pale white glow. The cube is warm in her hands like a comforting heat of a furnace. Or that of the steady warmth of her father’s hand. Of all the things she begins to remember, she finds herself recollecting all the occasions of his gentle admonishment. _You are too quick to close and lock your doors, Darcy,_ he would often tell her, resting a firm and patient hand on her shoulder, even on days when she refused to speak to him after a heated argument. _Don’t forget to open them once in a while,_ he’d say, graciously and kindly so. He was always like that to her and her sister and her mother. He never made it seem that they were difficult to love. He was never difficult when it came to love. And with her, he always waited for her to unlock the door and to open up and let him in. 

_You really have a wicked sense of humour, don’t you, Dad?_

Darcy chews on her lip, blinks back her tears. “Well then,” she says, clearing her throat as she looks at everyone in the room, “I suppose we should best prepare to set out as soon as we can. Wouldn’t want to keep an ancient temple waiting.”

* * *

Samuel shuts the door of their room and now they are all alone. The way he lays the keys on the desk is slow and deliberate. Darcy briefly feels anxious. She can feel him itching to say something, still stewing over the cutting words that he was meant to say to her. This is finally his chance for a rematch. But as she drifts to the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress, the first words that come out of his mouth are not exactly what she’s expecting.

“You okay?”

Darcy darts him a look as if he had just spoken in tongues. He is watching her with absolute concern for her wellbeing that it baffles her, almost beckoning that desperate part of her to ask him, _How come you’re still checking in on me? Why are you being so decidedly kind to me when I’ve been awful to you?_

Instead, she pulls a strained and awkward smile and all she manages to say is: “Yeah, I’m okay. Still reeling, but I’m okay.”

“Okay, cool.” He nods. He kicks off his shoes and sets it to the rack next to the dresser. “That was pretty awesome, by the way, with your pendant being the actual key to the, um… key,” he says in a sheepish eagerness. “I never really imagined an intricate mechanism like that existed in their era. It’s kind of crazy.”

“I know.” She looks down at her hands. She tightly clasps them together. “Still, I just…” She pauses. “I find it hard to believe my dad entrusted this to me all this time.”

Samuel sits in the bed with her but he does not sit close. He maintains a careful, measured space, as if she has unknowingly summoned a mile, an ocean, a stretch of a desert to come between them. 

“You know,” he says, “maybe your old man knew that your mother wasn’t meant to do it alone. And if there’s anyone who’d keep it and who’d deliver to help her to finish the job, he saw it in you.”

Darcy winces a wry smile. “You don’t have to think so highly of me.”

“I’ll always think highly of you.” He smiles, and there is a sadness in it that wrings her heart to swell. “And look, I’m not saying this to be as a jackass move to make you feel bad for that stuff earlier, but I do mean this. I’m sure your father will be proud of you, Jane.”

A brutal and aching silence falls. Darcy helplessly dithers in it. She looks at him and she begins to wonder: how on earth could he possibly make it so easy to grant her this degree of kindness? How could he even dare to be _this_ generous when she has been so insufferable and so inconsiderate of his feelings? 

“Hey, Samuel?”

“Yeah?”

“About what I said… it was cruel and uncalled for and I’m _so_ sorry—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—Jane, it’s fine.” He inches closer to her, and he crosses the space between them as if he is always ready to run a mile, to cross an ocean, or to weather a stretch of a desert to come back to her. He takes her hand in his. “I kind of get why you said it, honestly,” he says. “I mean, you just said the facts. I’ve been sleeping around, and you had every right to call me out for that. It stings, but I actually deserve it—”

“No, Samuel, you don’t—”

“Yes, I do,” he insists firmly. “But if I may just say something?” He pauses, blows out a breath. “I… I know life is shitty in general, but… not everyone is out there to hurt you. Not everyone you meet is going to betray your trust. And you might be surprised to know but there will be people who will care about you. And _I_ care about you, Jane. I care about you so much it hurts. And believe it or not, I’m not out here to hurt you. And even if you push me away, I’m afraid to tell you that I’m a stubborn son of a bitch who’ll just keep coming back.”

Darcy opens her mouth to speak, but she catches herself unable to utter a single word. But she does not need to say anything. Samuel takes her face in his tender and calloused hands, and just as he is about to place his lips on hers, she frowns.

“What is it?”

“Samuel, what are we doing?” There’s a tremor in her voice. A sob threatens to claw out of her throat. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” she pulls away, gestures vaguely to the both of them— “what’s the point in this? Once this is all over, we’ll be going back to our lives, and the second you leave I’ll probably be just another girl—”

“And here I thought I was the only one tormenting myself about what will happen once this job is over.” He laughs. “The thought that this is going to end has been killing me for days.”

Darcy tilts her head. “Wait, you’ve been thinking about this, too?”

“Of course I do.” He holds her hand, presses a kiss on her knuckles. “You have no idea how badly I want to stay with you for as long as I could, to just… I dunno, I want to make everything—”

“Stop for once. Just this.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” He pauses. He is absently thumbing circles in the palm of her hand. “And look… you will _never_ be just another girl to me,” he says finally. “You’re _my_ Jane. My constant pain-in-the-ass and yet so excruciatingly beautiful Darcy Jane—”

“Stop it.” She squeezes his hand hard enough that his laugh comes out partly as a wince. “Now you’re being absolutely ridiculous.”

A cheeky smile is beginning to curl at the corners of his mouth. “I like it when you blush. Pink is a nice colour on you.”

“Samuel.”

“What?”

“I…” She hesitates. “What could you possibly want from me?”

He rests his forehead against hers. “Just _you,_ silly. All I want is you.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“Why not? I mean it. I mean _every_ word—”

“I know you do. It’s just… now I wouldn’t know how to stop myself from wanting you.”

“Then don’t you ever stop.”

He begins kissing her cheek, her jaw, the tip of her nose. When he presses his mouth against her skin, she no longer knows what holds her back from kissing him. Or why she ever thought of holding back. She places her hands on the back of his neck and pulls his lips to hers. She kisses him as if she is searching for mercy in his mouth. He kisses her back as if there is nothing left to forgive.

It does not take another more aching second before their hands are clumsily unbuttoning each other’s clothes, shedding one layer after another until there is nothing more left to shed. He pushes her onto the middle of the bed, his mouth leaving gentle trails of kisses on her neck, her chest, her shoulder, on places that she has once kept from him, with something verging on deference. She likes it, how he is mindful of her reactions, how he pays attention to her pleasure, how his body knows hers more than it knew itself. _Mine, mine, mine,_ he whispers against her thighs. _Yours, only yours,_ she moans in response. She arches obediently to his touch. She surrenders herself completely to him. Perhaps this is what it means to be holy. Perhaps to be holy is to accept that she is now irrevocably and madly and utterly his.

* * *

Darcy wakes in the middle of the night from a strange dream concerning her father and Victor. She tries to recall bits and pieces of it, but she vaguely remembers anything at all. The only thing that sticks is her father mentioning Cartagena, and that was when she woke up. 

She checks the clock on the bedside table. It is only one-thirty in the morning. Next to her, Samuel is still fast asleep and sprawled on his stomach, his firm back peppered pink with scratches. (Clearly, it was all her doing and she cannot help admire her handiwork for a second.) Careful not to stir him awake, she sneaks out of the bed as quietly as she could. She picks up his shirt and slips herself in it as she tiptoes to her laptop sitting by the desk.

For some reason, she is compelled to look both Leticia and Victor up. With the mystery about the key and the location of the temple out of the way, there’s been one other thing that’s been bothering her in Amsterdam like a stubborn bit of food stuck between her teeth. She cannot seem to get Leticia’s description of her real father out of her mind, and then that remark of Victor’s that afternoon…

She opens up her database, does a thorough search on the both of them, going through records she could find in Cartagena. It does not take long for her to yield results. She reads through every file of Leticia’s and Victor’s, and there is one detail that catches her attention.

_Fuck._

She keeps in mind to speak to Victor about this. It is not her secret to tell, so Victor has to be the one to tell Leticia. She has every right to know.


	9. Sam Drake

When Sam wakes in the golden light of morning and the first thing he sees is Darcy’s sleeping face next to him, he immediately thinks he is dreaming. He traces a gentle finger across her cheek, following the trail of freckles that dotted her nose. The first thought that crosses his mind is, _This is too vivid for a dream._

The second thought that dawns on him: _Shit, this is actually real. Last night was real._

He smiles to himself, almost foolishly so, when he realizes she is hugging his arm like a teddy bear. She snuggles closer, and his smile grows even wider. It’s a surprise that he doesn’t mind this. This is actually nice. For someone who has lived his entire life never staying the night in someone’s bed after a good fuck, wary of this kind of intimacy, hopping from one affair to the next all in the graceless pursuit of meaningless sex, it’s bizarre that he doesn’t actually hate this. It should be a disaster that he doesn’t. But much to his unsettling comfort, he likes it quite a lot. In fact, he only likes this because it’s Darcy. And last night with her was definitely more than just a good fuck nor would it ever count as meaningless sex. It was far better than that. It was all too goddamn _good_ to be just _that._ And he’d never like it this much—heck, he might not even like it at all—with anyone else.

Right then and there, he decides that this is the best way to wake up in the morning: with her by his side, the warmth of her body against his, her calm and peaceful and heavenly face only a breath away from him. If he could, he would savour this moment a little while longer. 

But he knows that the only thing he can do is to relish every second of this and not let any of it go to waste.

He lets his hand drift over her forehead, sweeps away a lock of hair away from her face. He smooths his fingers over her brow and she frowns. He presses away the crease. He plants a kiss on her forehead as gently as he can, but then, she slightly shifts.

She groans and lazily opens her eyes. “Morning.”

“Good morning to you, too.” He pinches her chin and she manages a sleepy smile. 

“So how long have you been awake?” 

“Long enough to watch you sleep for a good while.”

“Oh. Well I do hope watching me drool over the pillows kept you entertained.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry,” he says, lightly poking her cheek, “it even turned me on.” 

She replies with one of her withering eye-rolls, one that he’s already come to adore. She covers her mouth, holds back a yawn. “God, I still feel so sore.”

The memory of last night fondly returns to him, but now with a slight pang of worry. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

“No, no—not at all. Actually, it was…” She pauses. She rests a warm hand on the side of his face and gently thumbs his cheek. “It was actually good.” She bites her bottom lip. “And, you know, I should be the one to apologize, I might’ve scratched you too hard and—“

“No, it’s fine,” he tells her. He takes her hand, presses her fingertips to his mouth. She’s staring at him with fierce tenderness in her eyes. Up close, her eyes are impossibly blue like the sea, and he is the helpless ship that sinks in it at any given time of day.

His lips curl into a smile against her fingers. “Boy, your eyes _are_ like sapphires.”

“Samuel.” She takes her hand back and her brows knit into a frown. Her cheeks blossom into a rosy blush. “Seriously now.”

“What? I’m being serious.”

“I know but I mean, really? _The Aristocats?”_

He grins mirthfully. “Why not? It’s true. And I think I’d make a good Thomas O’Malley to your Duchess, baby.”

“God, you are absolutely silly.” 

Her hands wander through his hair in soft, gentle sweeps. Something in his heart melts everytime she does this. His arm slides up the middle of her back, and he tugs her closer into his arms, buries his face in the crook of her neck and begins kissing her jaw, the soft curve of her throat. He lightly nips at her skin, and she lets out a vibrant laugh. As his mouth cruises down to her collarbone, he catches a glimpse of the purple marks he left the night before. He leaves a soft kiss on the same spot. He slowly pulls the sheets away, gently sweeping a hand on her waist underneath the loose, white shirt that looks a lot like what he was wearing yesterday and… wait.

He stops and stares at her for a moment. “Is that _my_ shirt?” His tone has gone low and deep into the pits of primal possessiveness. He never imagined seeing Darcy in his clothes would somehow awaken and spur the territorial caveman in him. It’s ridiculous.

“Oh. Um, yes,” she says sheepishly. “I couldn’t find where you tossed mine last night, and the AC had me freezing, so.” She begins to shift a little. “Let me just find it and—”

“No, no, no—don’t.” Before she can even try to slither out of bed, he hugs her tighter. He playfully nibbles at her jaw that she snorts another laugh. “I like this on you.”

She cracks a cheeky smile. “So,” she says, “I take it’s the reason for the hardness pressing against me?”

He flashes her an equally cheeky grin. “Maybe so.” 

Sam could no longer resist bringing his mouth to hers, her lips soft and ripe to be kissed. Her hands, a tender prayer clinging around his neck. She opens up to him like a blossoming flower in spring. She deepens the kiss, and he can taste the longing in her mouth. She wants him just as he wants her. Her exhalation is long when he pulls away, a form of exaltation that leaves her empty. He wants to fill her back up. He wants to be the air she breathes. 

So he kisses her again. And again. And again. There is no need for words between them when his kisses say everything he wants to tell her. _You matter to me. You’re all I want. I’m yours as you are mine._

And he knows she understands. Her body already knows his secrets. The way she threads her fingers through his hair, how her hands roam his body in scalding tenderness is an answer that speaks volumes. _You’re important to me. I want you. I’m yours as you are mine._

His hand slides up her thigh and underneath _his_ shirt. He hopes to tug the fabric of her underwear, but stops when there is _nothing_ for him to tug. He only feels her soft, bare skin against his palm. 

He swallows hard. “Jane,” he says darkly, “really? Wearing _my_ shirt with no underwear on?”

“Like I said, you tossed my pants to god knows where and—“

Her words dissolve into a gasp when he slips his hand between her legs, dipping one finger inside her. God, she’s already wet and it only makes him throb harder for her. Seeing the hard points of her nipples tease through his shirt is not helping him, either. Still, he keeps it slow and steady: one minute he is massaging her clit in gentle strokes; the next, two fingers are rubbing vigorous circles that have her scraping her nails against his shoulder, her head falling back in titillating pleasure. 

Sam revels at the sight of her like this, flustered and out of breath, all for him. He takes pride in it even. If anything, he is a fast learner, his hands already deft as a seasoned sailor—one night was all it took for him to sail through her rhythms, and now he’s dedicated to make her sing the sweet music of her moans.

The song stops when he withdraws his touch. She hardly bears not to protest. “Samuel, for heaven’s sake, I—”

Holding her gaze, the corner of his mouth curls into a crooked, devilish smile. He lifts his fingers to his lips and pops her wetness into his mouth. “You taste like candy, Jane.”

“Stop it.”

“Really? You mean you don’t want this anymore—”

“No, no, I mean stop putting _this_ off,” she says desperately. One hand grips his arm, the other she moves lower, until he can feel her soft fingers wrap around him. He stiffens. He grows even harder in her touch. “You’re already hard for me. I want you. Inside. _Now.”_

Sam exhales a raw groan. It takes monumental effort for him not to oblige in her request and not to flip her over and fuck her senseless into oblivion. Seeing her so needy for him sends a shiver down his spine and his crotch, but her talking dirty to him? _Fuck._ That shit is his game and he is now being outplayed. At this rate, she is going to drive him out of his mind.

Unless he does it first.

“Not yet,” he whispers against her jaw, his breath a tender caress against her skin. “Let me memorize you, Jane.” 

And by _memorize,_ what Sam means is this: his lips traveling from her neck to her collarbone, slowly lifting his shirt up her chest, dwelling on her freckled parts like it is home. Her warmth, a form of safety. He decorates her body with a kiss. This is how he inhabits her. This is how he wants her to wear him.

He fastens his mouth on her nipple, drawing deeply, and she arches into him with a whimper. The faint scent of his own cologne on her skin blended with her own familiar fragrance is intoxicating. He trails more kisses down the valley of her breasts all the way to her belly as he climbs off the bed. He pulls her hips at the edge of the mattress, and she squeals in surprise. Kneeling before her, he spreads her legs even wider, leaves open-mouthed kisses in her thighs as he takes the warmth of her in his mouth.

 _“Samuel.”_ The breathy, quivering voice is hers as her fingers scrabble for purchase on his hair. Sam promises he is not once a pious man, but perhaps this is what reverence looks like: faithful hands coasting every curve and corner of her body, her skin the scripture, his mouth an earnest preacher. His body an enormous ache of wanting at the altar of her. He searches divinity between her thighs. She makes sin look like a virtue. These are sacred seconds. Witness the barreling of his gnawing need for her. He drags her tongue over her in greedy, voracious licks, devours her like a man starved, like her pleasure is his sustenance. He locks her arms around her legs, keeps on the blistering pace of his mouth and fingers until she is crying out his name. Even the sound of his name on her lips is holy. 

And then he abruptly stops.

“God, aren’t you ruthless,”Darcy says in between heaving breaths. Impatiently, she props herself to her elbows, staggers to sit up, and tugs him back to bed. She pushes him to lie on his back, straddles his lap. “You’ve had your fun, now let me have mine.”

He laughs. Even in bed, she is still painfully competitive. And god help him, it actually turns him on. “As you wish,” he beckons.

With his hands on her waist, eyes not leaving each other, he helps her out of his shirt and guides her hips as she lets him inside her. She begins rocking her body against his, and he watches her roll her hips in a slow, maddening rhythm. _Fuck,_ she feels hot and tight and so, _so_ good. 

“Goddamnit, Jane—you’re so beautiful riding me like this,” Sam grunts, his hands coasting her waist and giving her ass a squeeze that she manages a small, delighted laugh. Her laugh turns into a moan when he cups her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples. He can feel her body quiver in his touch. It’s satin, her skin. God, he wants more of her, and he wants to make her melt for him and _only_ for him.

And so he changes the rhythm. He grabs her waist tighter and pummels her from underneath, greedy and hungry and pure of wanting. He likes his body best when it is intertwined with hers. He has never been in tune with someone else like this before, and it’s as though Darcy is made for him. As though he is made for her.

 _“Samuel,_ I—“ she bites her lip, her fingers digging crescent-shaped marks on his chest— “you’re being—bloody unfair—“

“Well—“ he feels her clench around him that he grunts madly— “do you want me to stop—”

“No, Samuel—keep going, I—”

“See, I knew my Jane wants this—”

“Oh god, you’re one cocky bastard— _ah!”_

Once again, her words wither into a whimper as he quickens the pace. His thrusts grow harder and faster. The sound that occupies their room is a serenade to all their desires. It is a savage chorus of their grunts and groans, skin slapping against skin, two bodies veiled in sweat, drumming like a beating heart. Their names spilling on each other’s lips like a cry of praise. A crescendo. The pleasure of their release boils over and he is baptized in it. 

An exhausted, breathless Darcy collapses on his chest. He can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, her breath brushing on his skin in warm, uneven breezes. He wraps her arms around her, planting a kiss on the crown of her head. 

_Best morning sex of my life._

“Really?” she asks, looking up at him. Turns out he said that out loud.

He smiles at her, pushes a lock of hair away from her face and tugs it in her ear. “Yes, really,” he says. “You okay?”

“I can’t feel my legs. I think I’m dead.”

“Wow, I had no idea I was that lethal,” he says, and she laughs. The vibration of her laughter is electric. She makes a spark feel like longing. He likes holding her like this, her body closely pressed against his, feeling her breaths, her heartbeats. He leaves another kiss on her forehead. “You know, if there’s any consolation, once you recover I think you’d make an excellent equestrian since you rode my—”

Sam doesn’t get to finish that sentence when Darcy quickly covers his mouth with her hand. “Must you always be so uncouth?” she tells him with a withering look.

He nibbles her fingers to coax it off his face, which makes her laugh again. At this rate, her laughter is his drug and it’s all he could ever live for. “But you like my dirty mouth,” he teases with a smile.

She quirks her lips, her face awfully serious, as if considering the thought. Then she shrugs. “I have to say,” she says flatly, “you make quite a fine point.” 

They stare at each other in a moment and they both laugh.

Darcy pushes herself up to meet his face to kiss him on the cheek, the tip of his nose, then his lips. “I would love to stay in bed and to ask for another round,” she says, absently tracing the outline of his stubbled jaw, “but we have to meet with Lola this morning. You know, for the… thing.”

His heart sinks at the reminder of their slowly dying time. How is it that she’s still here and he already misses her? His arms tighten around her. “Jane?”

“Yeah?”

“I…” His fingers are leaving vacant traces along the curve of her spine, the small of her back. “Your mother and I spoke the other day.” 

“Oh.” Her head tilts slightly. She darts him a curious look, lips pursed. “Let me guess. You two talked about me.”

“Sort of.”

“Of course. Typical mum. And she asked if we were sleeping together.”

He laughs. “Yeah, exactly that.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“At the time, we weren’t... _yet._ So I told her no.”

“Right.” She smiles. She is softly tracing random shapes over his chest. “And that’s all you talked about?”

“Well…” He hesitates. “She offered me a job. For me and Nathan.”

Darcy opens her mouth, then closes it. She rolls off him and she sits up, pulling the sheets over her chest. 

A sharp feeling of panic brings Sam to sit up, too. “Jane—”

“Look,” she says, “Leticia needs you and I know it’d be selfish of me to ask you to—and you don’t have to take it if you—”

“I know, I know. But Jane, I…” He falters. He knows what he wants to tell her, the very words teeter at the edge of his tongue, and yet he cannot find it in himself to spit it out. 

“We’ll figure this out, okay?” is what he manages to say. “I… I won’t let this trip be the end of this. Of us.”

She smiles, but the expression that softens her face is mired with sadness. “Of course,” is all she says as he brings her closer, letting her face rest against the crook of his neck, keeping his gnawing fear at bay that this might be their last.

* * *

The sun has already set the sky ablaze into dusk when they depart for the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In Lola’s white minivan, a restless Sam is squeezed between Nate and Leticia—who, much to their chagrin, refused to be left behind in Lola’s manor. Victor and Greta sit comfortably on the back, busy ironing out their alternate routes. They both have been here before, and they can still remember their excavation sites like the back of their hand. Meanwhile, Darcy is on the passenger seat, too absorbed in her laptop, watching what seems to be multiple surveillance videos. Lola is behind the wheel, driving them all through the dusty highway leading back to the Old City.

Sam pulls out a tourist brochure of the church from his pocket and studies the map. Their goal is to reach the Edicule within the church—the shrine that houses Jesus’s burial site. According to Greta, much of the Edicule rests on a foundation of remnants of ancient structures and is honeycombed with a maze of tunnels and channels, most of it still left unexplored. She mentions there’s also an underground chamber directly below it, one that has yet to be fully surveyed due to the many restrictions and the politically volatile climate in Jerusalem. (But of course, with Lola pulling a lot of strings to get them access to the site, that obstacle was already out of the way.) Somehow, the fact alone that there’s something underneath the church lets Sam’s theory about the location of the temple—ruins or otherwise—hold water. At least, for now. He still could not fathom how someone like Rembrandt stumbled upon a monumental archaeological discovery right below an already established archaeological site. Maybe the painter had been merely hallucinating? Or dreaming? Or he had been visited by the angel of the Lord? Who knows, really. What matters now is that they’re about to find that out themselves, and Sam could only hope that this is not a wild goose chase leading up to everyone’s disappointment.

In any case: after careful and thorough deliberation, they all have agreed that the excavation team would be Sam, Nathan, Darcy, and Greta. It only made sense for Greta to come along, considering a) she began this work along with her late husband, and b) she’s been here more times than she could count in her career and she knows the place better than anyone else in the crew. Darcy joining the excavation party doesn’t seem to worry her, too; apparently, Greta had been often bringing her daughters on excavation trips ever since they were children, and so hanging around ruins and caves and old things should not be new to Darcy anymore. Based on what they all know so far, as it stands, the obvious easiest way to get to the Edicule is through the church itself. Plan A should be simple if things go in their favour: from the Jaffa Gate, travel to the church by foot, find the way to the underground chamber from the Edicule, search for any pedestal that would fit the key, and… well, hope that they really do find _something_ for all the goddamn trouble they went through. It’s all pretty straightforward. Still, true to what Sam believes now to be a classic Kingsley fashion, Greta remains geared and ready with alternate routes if things ever go awry.

On the other hand, Lola would be accompanied by Victor and Leticia to a command center she had set up not far from the church to remain on lookout. She had also dispatched her men around the city, too. Sam is still reeling how in the limited amount of time they had for the day, they managed to put together a surprisingly solid plan (and back-up plans) at their disposal. He had a feeling that with the way Greta and Lola prepared for all of this, and with how he, Nathan, and Victor had been compelled to accept Lola’s guns and ammo, it was as if they’re already expecting some nasty company to welcome them. Almost as if they’re all heading for war.

And they were not wrong.

“Looks like Javi’s already here,” says Darcy without turning to face the rest, her attention still very much trained to her laptop. “And he’s now at the church.”

“Wait, are you serious?” Sam leans forward and happens to bump into Nathan, who is also scrambling to squeeze himself in the space between the front seats to take a look. Darcy zooms in at the surveillance footage from what seems to be the courtyard of the church. It is usually packed with tourists, but at this time of day—and most probably because of Lola’s frightening influence—the place is eerily empty. And waltzing past the door is Javier. There is no mistaking that slick brown hair and that infuriatingly handsome face. He is, of course, joined by Roman, along with Javier’s burly men that clearly fail to hide all their menace even in civilian clothes.

Nathan heaves a frustrated sigh. “Son of a bitch. How did they even know that that’s the place they should be looking for?”

“That’s what I’d like to know as well.” Darcy keys in another set of commands, and her monitor changes to show another surveillance footage. Sam recognizes the area. It’s somewhere in the northern part of the city, it seems. Then, Darcy calls out, “Mum, you mentioned there’s another route through Zedekiah’s Cave? That quarry around Damascus Gate?”

“Yes,” confirms Greta. “It’s a long way, however. Might take a while for us to reach the Edicule.”

“It’s fine,” says Darcy. “Besides, we have the key. And knowing Javi, he’s wise enough not to stir trouble in such a sacred place. Unless, well…” She turns to Lola. “Your men instigate the trouble.”

“Trust me—they won’t,” Lola says nonchalantly. She keeps her eyes on the road. “The men I sent to the church are disguised well and they’re close with the resident priests so they won’t cause unnecessary trouble. Much like _your_ Javi.” 

Darcy casts Lola a withering look. Frankly, teasing jest or otherwise, Darcy should have given Lola more than just a withering look like, for instance, she could have made a more disgusted reaction, or maybe, she could have clarified that Javier was not and in any possible conceivable way _hers,_ but instead, all she says is, “Good to know.” _Good to know? That’s it? That’s fucking it?_ If she chose to ignore the last four words of what Lola just said then fine, _fine,_ it’s absolutely _fine,_ Sam decides. But why this painfully trivial detail irks him in every fiber of his body, he has no idea at all. 

Sam catches himself frowning in the rearview mirror. He also catches Lola’s eye and she shoots him a sneaky and horribly amused smile. 

“Anyway,” Darcy goes on, “as far as I can see here—” she hovers around a new image displayed on her screen— “Santa Blanca folk are roaming around Via Dolorosa, which is the next closest route to the church.” She sighs. She switches to a different footage. “However… there are no signs of Javi’s men by the Damascus and Herod Gates. Although there are still city guards roaming around and—”

“Don’t worry—those are my guys right there, too,” Lola says casually after briefly sneaking a peek on Darcy’s laptop. “Some of the officers around the city work for my father, so I had them stationed at all the routes mentioned by Greta. Including that one. You’d get in easily, I swear.”

“Now that’s pretty convenient,” says Nathan, clearly impressed.

Sam stares incredulously at Lola. “Seriously though,” he says, “is there anyone in this city that you don’t know?”

Lola laughs. “Honestly, that’s a question best saved for my mother,” she tells Sam. 

“You know,” says Darcy, “I’m beginning to see how Shoreline would end up differently under your management. Nades specializes in brute force and you—”

“Keep it stylish and stealthy, I know.” Lola smiles, shrugs. “But dad prefers his heiress to rule with an iron fist, and my sister fits that bill.”

Sam stares at Lola for a moment. It’s a first, having Lola speak so candidly about her family, and yet Sam could not miss hearing that familiar resentment in her voice. He knows it all too well. And Darcy appears to be well acquainted with Lola’s family, too, and her familiarity with Lola’s sister intrigues him the most. Maybe it’s the nickname. Darcy calling people by their nicknames strike him as something so intimate, so personal and private. He would have loved to ask her and pry about it, but given their present situation, he decides to save the subject for later.

Lola makes a left and shifts into another highway. “So now—we’re taking the Damascus Gate, right?”

“Yes,” answers Darcy. “That’s the best option we have so far.”

Beams of streetlights sweep the window as they drive along the main road, sliding past establishments of old and new, of modern concrete and ancient stone. The sky is already smeared in red ochre. The slow descent of the evening thrums in foreboding.

As the two towers that flank the Damascus Gate come into view, Lola makes a turn in a secluded parking building right across a row of stores and restaurants not too far from the gate. Everyone piles out, wasting no second to make sure everything is set: Sam gears up their guns and grappling hooks, Greta readies her own equipment, Darcy entrusts her laptop to Leticia as they both help Victor in unloading their bags from the van. Nathan checks and double-checks their flashlights. As Sam, Nathan, Darcy, and Greta prepare to set out, Lola hands each of them a portable transceiver and a small, mechanical device the size of a penny.

“It’s a tracker—wear that at all times,” Lola instructs. “Darcy programmed that to help me track your location at any given height or depth, so I should be able to pinpoint your location on the map even if, say, you’ve all descended to the earth’s core.” She smiles. “I’ll be watching everyone’s movements from the hideout. Once you’ve done your business, meet us at the Austrian hospice along Via Dolorosa. Find the wooden green door.”

Sam pins the tracker in the collar of his shirt and they part ways with Victor, Lola, and Leticia. Just as they cross the street into the square in front of Damascus Gate, Sam looks back. He sees Leticia waving him goodbye, telling him to come back soon.

Zedekiah’s Cave is already closed for tourists at this time of night, but it is as Lola says: getting in is easy as if they’re only here for a private tour. When the stocky, middle-aged guard stationed by the entrance—who, in all fairness, looked like he could possibly raise hell and tackle any trespasser on sight—spots them approaching, he unlocks the green gate and lets them in without much of a fuss. Greta thanks the guard kindly in Hebrew and even exchanges a few pleasantries with him, to which he responds with both surprise and delight. When asked about what she had said, Greta tells them that she knew the man, and that having worked here decades ago with Henry, he had been the same guard who helped them on their excavation trip.

Greta leads the way, guiding Sam, Nathan, and Darcy down the steps that open into a vast, cavernous limestone chamber. Industrial lights flood the entire expanse, basking the bleached space in a soft, golden glow, its bone-white pillars casting its shadows. Drops of water trickle through the ceiling. It is eerily chilly.

Sam turns to look at Darcy, who is just as in awe as he is. 

“Okay, this is impressive,” says Nathan, his voice echoing with wonder as he paces around the chamber. He turns to look at Sam. “Hey, remember Mom’s story about this cave, about how King Zedekiah hid here during the siege of the Babylonians?” 

“Oh, I know that one,” answers Sam. “But unfortunately, he was eventually captured and taken to Syria to face King Nebuchadnezzar, had his sons slaughtered in front of him before they gouged his eyes out.”

Nathan snorts a laugh. “Wow, you didn’t have to go that far but thanks for the morbid thought.” 

“Hey, you’re the one who brought it up, and that’s how the rest of the story goes.” Sam feels the surface of a thickly-bedded column with his fingers. It is coarsely-crystalline, a bit sandy to the touch. “Anyway,” he says, “Mom also said this place is also known as Solomon’s Quarries. The very same limestone quarry that served to build the First Temple and some of the most iconic architecture all around the Old City. So everything we see here dates back as far as, what? 500 century BC?”

“That’s actually correct,” says Greta approvingly. She stands next to Sam, looking positively pleased. “And you’re right—most of the buildings in the Old City are made from the limestone mined from this quarry. _Meleke,_ they call it. _Stone of kings._ The Western Wall is one of the structures made with this stone they carved out of this chamber. These days, this area—apart from being a tourist attraction—is now utilized as an auditorium to host concerts and events.”

“Huh. That’s certainly one creative way to use an abandoned ancient quarry,” notes Darcy. 

“It certainly is. But of course, it’s all in an effort to boost and promote the city’s tourism,” Greta explains. “Israel is in a continuous state of conflict, and it is easy to associate the rest of the country and dismiss the beauty of it when the media focuses on Gaza, and… well, let’s not get into that.”

Darcy nods. “Yes, let’s not.”

“Anyway,” Greta says, “there's something I’d like you all to see.” She waves a hand, beckoning for them to follow her as she walks over to the middle of the chamber. She flicks her flashlight open and points it up at the ceiling. Above, there are visible chisel marks along with carvings of what seems to be pairs of cherubs. “Some of these figures were carved by ancient stonecutters with iron, which should date back to the Second Temple Period. But these cherubs are pretty distinct from the rest. You’d see more drawings like that in the other area, like they made some sort of gallery of abstract patterns and formations.”

Nathan sidles up to Sam, claps a hand on his back. “Cherubs are a common Old Testament motif, isn’t it? And these look like—”

“The ones from Rembrandt’s sketches,” Darcy chimes in. “At least the ones he claimed to have seen flanking the Holy of Holies.”

Nathan nods agreeably. “Yes, precisely that.”

“Now I’m glad we took this route.” Sam beams hopefully, looking at Nathan and Darcy and Greta. “Looks like we’re heading in the right direction, guys—”

“It’s too early to tell, don’t you think?” Darcy crosses her arms, her head up and eyes still studying the ceiling. She really does have a way to dampen one’s hopes like dousing a fire, and she does it without her even knowing. “These carvings could probably be just mere drawings and nothing more.”

Sam makes a face. “Would it hurt if you try to be a little more optimistic, Jane?”

“Uh yes, because it would ruin my life,” she says dryly. The look she darts at him would have cut a block in half. “Besides, I’m just being realistic.”

“There’s a very thin line between being realistic and being skeptical, and I think you’re more of the latter.”

She rolls her eyes skyward, her finest art form. “Well,” she says indignantly, “I’ll have you know that one person can actually be _both,_ so—”

Greta hoarsely clears her throat. They both turn to look at her. She is watching them both with an amused glint in her eyes, and Sam cannot tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. “So,” she goes on to say, “I would love to take you to a more in-depth tour of the next area with the gallery of these carvings, but I’m afraid we must move onward since we are, after all, pressed for time. If you two love birds are done squabbling, then I say we go.”

Sam and Darcy exchange a flustered look. “Wait, we’re not—“ they stammer to explain in their poor defense, but Greta has already marched off to the mouth of a passageway at the end of the chamber.

Nathan shakes his head, laughing. “Hey, _love birds,”_ he echoes, slapping his hands on their shoulders, “let’s get going.” 

They both consider each other for a moment. Darcy seems like she wants to say something, just as Sam does, altogether hesitating, tiptoeing around something important, but both decide to say nothing at all. A strange and strained silence. Without anyone to protest to or anything left to say, they awkwardly hurry after Nathan and Greta instead.

And onward they go.

Greta ushers them through another chamber of ridged limestone walls. This one, however, houses a dark pit gaping between stalagmites as sharp and pallid as a shark’s fangs. The hole is bordered by orange plastic cones and a yellow tape ribboned around it with a sign that says _Caution: excavation in progress._ Greta does not heed the warning; she simply ducks under the barricade and waltzes right in.

“Watch your heads, lads,” Greta tells them. 

Nathan kindly offers to head down the pit first so he can assist Greta as they climb down, one which she obligingly accepts. Sam and Darcy follow close behind. 

If the chamber had been bright and spacious, the cave’s lower level is the exact opposite. The passage is dark and cramped: craggy ceilings pressing in close, clawed and chiseled out, the beams from their flashlights the only thing illuminating their way. Here, the walls of limestone are unrefined, untouched. As they traverse deeper into the trail, the path gradually shrinks into a crevice that it could hardly admit a grown person. They have no choice but to shimmy over, their faces nearly kissing the walls to make their way through.

“So Samuel,” says Greta, who is leading the way ahead of them, “I hope you’re still glad we took this route.”

“It’s fine,” says Sam. “Nathan and I are used to this by now. Besides, I’ve made tighter squeezes.”

Nathan scoffs. “I get the feeling you’re talking about something else.”

“Maybe so.”

Right in front of him, Darcy turns her head slightly in his direction and throws him a threatening glare. He then throws back a grin. He realizes way too late that teasing her, though it brings him absolute delight, is in no way a good idea while they are literally squeezed between walls of rocks. God help him, even with their current circumstance, it does not stop her from pulling a mean punch on his arm that he yelps a helpless _“Ow!”_

“You two okay back there?” asks Nathan. He stutters to a halt, so does Greta, and they both turn slowly just so they can check on Sam and Darcy.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he groans, waving a hand. “Just hurt myself from a very feral rock.” He fixes an unrelenting stare on Darcy, and she is unfazed. She only smiles wryly at him before she urges Nathan to press forward.

The path bends and finally broadens into a wider tunnel. Still, they are too far from enjoying comfort as they slog through another set of uneven stone steps. The deeper they go, the steeper their descent. A gravelly rabbit hole, down and down. They tread as carefully as they can, grabbing on boulders for support; fragments of rocks jutting out of the walls, their lifeline. Under the veil of darkness with only their headlamps as their guiding light, it feels like an eternity soldiering through the passage—until whispers of gurgling water can be heard at a distance. A rush of gentle breeze whistles past. The air carries the scent of freshwater and deep earth.

Soon enough, they round a corner and the source of the sound reveals itself. The end of the passage widens into a ledge overlooking a large, luminous chamber that boasts a subterranean waterfall between cliffs, gracefully cascading down from a cluster of limestone rock formations. The plunge pool at the bottom is bright and broad and blue as sapphires. _Like Jane’s eyes,_ Sam immediately thinks to himself. Suspended from the ceiling are colossal clusters of stalactites, some of which have been lined by LED lights, making it seem like crystal-like chandeliers have grown out of rocks. 

Sam finds himself in absolute awe. He has never seen anything like this before in his life.

“Now _this_ is impressive,” Darcy says almost to herself. The look on her face is that of wide-eyed wonder, smiling from ear to ear as she stares out into the breathtaking view. 

Sam looks at her and it is her who still takes his breath away. 

“Holy crap,” says Nathan, sounding positively thrilled, “this definitely makes the tedious descent all the way here really worth it, huh, big brother?”

Sam absently nods. “Yeah, it sure does,” he says, still unable to take his eyes off Darcy. “I don’t know how you can improve a view like this.”

Darcy turns to him and he quickly lowers his eyes. Flustered, and still half mesmerized by her, he looks away. 

“So,” Sam begins as he turns to Greta, clearing his throat slightly, “what’s this place called?”

“This place remains unnamed,” says Greta, “but most of the speleologists who have been studying this area have been calling it Zedekiah’s Tears. The water flowing here is connected from the Jordan River, and travels all the way to the Mediterranean.”

“Interesting.” Sam nods, digs his hands inside the pockets of his jeans. “Well, you could’ve told us we’d wind up in a place like this.”

Greta exhales a chuckle. “But that would have ruined the surprise. Besides,” she says, “I feel like I need to remind all of you that this is not what we are all here for.”

“Yes, Mum—we know that,” says Darcy. “But... this is amazing. I never thought something like this exists right below the Old City.”

“Well, this is just one of the many hidden places uncovered during the period of the British Mandate,” explains Greta. “Frankly, with all the blocked off tunnels and most areas being off-limits even to scholars and researchers, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that more natural spots like this exist. After all, _mija…”_ She sighs. A warm, knowing smile tugs the corners of her mouth. “There are a lot of things that exist right under our noses—and sometimes, one has to look close enough to realize it’s been there all along.”

Darcy says nothing. She presses her lips together in a thin line, staring at Greta with a curious expression on her face. “Mum?”

“Yes?”

She passes a swift glance at Sam, then back at her mother. She opens her mouth to speak, but closes it, as if deciding not to pursue the subject at the last minute. “Nevermind,” she says after a reluctant pause. “Let’s… let's just keep going.”

Greta leads them down a steep slope with a narrow trail, past more limestone formations shaped like toadstools, and onto a long wooden bridge suspended high up over the pool that connects their spot to the other side of the cavern. Sam and Nathan and Darcy all exchange worried glances. The bridge looks old and rickety and just about ready to fall apart at any given second.

Darcy stops in her tracks. “Mum,” she begins doubtfully, just as she keeps fiddling with her necklace, “are you sure about this? Is there, um, another way to get across?”

Greta shakes her head. “This is the only way, I’m afraid.” She motions a hand. “Come along now,” she says without as much as any hesitation. Greta really is tougher than she looks, Sam decides, and it is even more amusing to know that she is much more brazen than her own daughter.

One by one, they walk over the bridge with Greta heading first, followed by an anxious Nathan, then an even more anxious Darcy. Sam is the last on the line. They maintain a good distance apart, exercising utmost caution, each step more heedful than the last. Every creak and sway of the bridge brings a frightful shot of panic. The gentle gush of the waterfall does little to provide him comfort. _Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down,_ he chants to himself, his sweaty hands tightly holding the ropes. But he does end up looking. Below, the dazzling blue water of the pool is not so much an inviting dip but a dizzying, high drop. 

He swallows. It is strange that he somehow finds an unusual consolation on the fact that there are no limestones nor any form of bedrock to skewer him should he fall. 

Time seems to drag on so painfully slow as they cross the entire stretch of the bridge. Eventually, Sam finally sees Greta making it safely to the other side and he expels a breath of relief. Soon enough, Nathan makes it, too. Darcy is close enough, she is almost there, just a couple more steps and—

Something snaps. 

One second, Darcy is keeping herself steady with the rope—the next she is barely holding onto whatever remains of a wooden board, screaming and cursing as the planks under her feet shatter into pieces. Sam, quickly powered by a surge of fear and adrenaline rush, makes a mad dash and leaps to catch her hand just in time. 

“Samuel!” she cries. “I—”

“It’s okay—I got you, Jane!” Sam grips her hand tighter, terrified of letting her slip even just an inch. On the other side, Nathan and Greta are shouting after them, but the words barely register. “C’mon,” he urges, “give me your other hand and I’ll pull you right up—”

Before Darcy could even reach for Sam, there comes another thunderous crack. This time, the whole bridge collapses, and all at once, Sam and Darcy are plummeting and plunging straight into the pool. 

A rush of freezing cold seizes Sam for a moment. Everywhere is deep and blue and cold. Really cold. But he is not dead. Thank god. And he is not drowning, either. He rises right back up to the surface, gasping for air. As soon as he looks around, the glaring thing he first notices is that he is the only one in the pool. Darcy, however, is nowhere to be found.

“Jane!” he calls out repeatedly. _She has not resurfaced yet,_ he thinks to himself, but then something quickly dawns on him.

_Fuck, she can’t swim. Shit, shit, shit._

Propelled by panic, Sam takes a deep breath and dives right back in. He does not need to look further when he spots Darcy slowly sinking into the bottom of the pool, her body limp and lifeless. He swims deeper, his arms sweeping wildly just to get to her, and he scoops her back up, hauling her to a nearby bank right by the waterfall.

“Jane!” He kneels by her side, carefully tilts her head to drain out the water from her mouth and nose. “Stay with me here, okay, please?” he mumbles miserably. His hands are shaking. He checks on her pulse and her breathing, but goddamnit, her pulse is faint, she isn’t breathing, and her chest isn’t moving, either. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He pinches her nose, presses his mouth against hers, and breathes into her two quick breaths. 

She does not respond. Every second that passes is a torment.

Sam lightly pats her cold cheek. “Jane,” he says, his voice trembling as he swallows a sob, “please wake up.” He presses his forehead against hers. “Darcy, please—you’re scaring me here, baby. I—”

Just then, Darcy jolts awake, panting and wheezing and coughing water out of her lungs.

Still dazed and breathless, she turns to Sam. And before she can even say anything, he kisses her and pulls her into a hug.

“Christ, don’t scare me like that,” he mumbles against her shoulder. He hugs her even tighter. “I thought I lost you.”

She manages a small, weak laugh. “Thank you, Samuel,” she says. “I promise to take swimming lessons after this.”

“You better.” He cups her face in his hands, sweeping her drenched hair out of her cheeks. “God, I—”

“Hey! You guys okay?”

Above them, Nathan’s voice rings out. They both look up. He is standing over a cliffside with a worried Greta.

Sam helps Darcy to her feet. “Yes, we’re fine!” he yells back. “Just went for a swim, is all.” He looks around him, then he looks back up at Nathan and Greta. “Uh, so... is there a way we can get back up there? I can rappel us both up with my grappling hooks, but I need something to—”

“Hold on,” says Greta. “You two just stay there—we’ll try to find something useful from the excavation equipment lying around here.” Then she says something indistinct to Nathan, after which, he runs off out of view for a moment. 

Not long after, Nathan returns with a crate and a rope ladder. He drops it down; Sam and Darcy scale the cliff, and Nathan helps them back up. Greta immediately welcomes Darcy with a firm and fierce embrace. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” She is fussing over Darcy as if to make sure she is not missing some parts. _“Dios mio,_ this is my fault—for a moment I was losing my mind thinking I was going to lose you next and I—”

“Mum, it’s okay—I’m fine.” Darcy smiles, squeezing Greta’s hand. “And I’m still here.”

Greta turns to Sam, the worried expression that creased her face finally softens into gratefulness. “Samuel,” she says, “thank you so, _so_ much for what you did to my Jane.”

Sam shakes his head. “It’s fine, don’t mention it,” he says as he awkwardly squeezes the water out of the hem of his shirt. “Frankly, I just… well.” He hesitates. A lump in his throat begins to throb, and as he looks at Darcy and holds her gaze, the thing he finds himself blurting out next is the closest thing he has to an oath. “I’d do anything for her.”

Though the incident in Zedekiah’s Tears has thrown them off for a while, they immediately recover as soon as they gather their bearings. Back on track, Greta takes them to another tunnel, but this time, the dark, gravelly trail slowly evens out into paved concrete paths, leveled steps, and walls made of limestone blocks. Sconces burning in the passage paint the way in soft amber. The air is getting richer, warmer. 

Greta and Darcy walk right up ahead, speaking to Lola over the radio and discussing what seems to be their next order of business once they get underneath the church. Sam overhears her saying that from here on out, the path is already straightforward and will lead them directly to the chamber. They seem to be getting closer.

Meanwhile, Sam and Nathan walk a few ways behind them, dithering and sharing an unsettling silence. With the way Nathan has been glancing at him from time to time, Sam can tell his brother is biding his time to say something.

“Just spit it out, Nathan,” Sam says impatiently. “I—”

“You have to take that job.”

Well, that was not what Sam was expecting. Sure, he brought up that subject to Nathan a few days back, made sure to lay out all the pros and cons, but he did not anticipate he’d be bringing this back up _now,_ of all times.

Sam heaves a deep breath. “Nathan,” he says as evenly as he could, “just so we’re clear, the offer is for both of us,and you know we can’t just leave Leticia and—”

“Bullshit.” Nathan gives him a hardened look. “I can stay behind with Leticia. You’re just making all these excuses because you’re scared to take a chance with _her.”_

Now that certainly hit a nerve. Sam tries to produce a proper response, to craft a stubborn indignation in his head, to sculpt it, to shape it. Instead, he comes up empty. He has nothing to say to that. He knows it’s true.

Nathan sighs. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, and I may not always be the brightest bulb in the room when it comes to women or relationships, but Sam… I’ve never seen you with your girlfriends the way you are with Darcy.”

“That’s not—”

“It’s true, and don’t you dare deny it when it’s so obvious. Truth be told, I had no idea you actually had a heart.”

“Fuck off.”

“Oh I will, once we get outta here,” Nathan says, laughing. “But seriously.” He claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Think this through. I’m sure Leticia would even cheer you on this. Besides, I know being in London means so much to you when… well. I wish I had another city to remember Mom by, but sadly, I only have New Orleans.”

“Don’t say that. You were there in London, too.”

“I was in her womb, you idiot.”

“Yeah, but technically, you were still there.”

Nathan shakes his head and they both laugh.

“Anyway,” says Sam, “that aside—let’s just focus on the goal for now, alright? Honestly, I don’t even know what we’re going to find here, let alone if we’re going to find anything—”

“Sam, look.” Nathan abruptly grinds to a halt that Sam is left startled. He looks ahead, and he catches his breath.

Sam slowly realizes that they have reached the end of the tunnel when it opens up into a dimly-lit circular chamber at the brink of ruin. Broken parts of statues and sculptures lay on the floor, collecting dirt and dust. A graveyard of old, forgotten things. 

And at the center of it are Greta and Darcy, the two of them surveying a small, weathered pedestal made of marble. The elaborate silver carvings decorating its surface is familiar.

“It looks like the one in the key box thing,” says Nathan. 

“Yes it is,” agrees Greta. “Back then, Henry and I thought little of this area, and now…” She sweeps a hand over its surface, and the square-shaped engraving on top—the same size of the key—becomes more visible.

The grin on Nathan’s face broadens with excitement. He looks at Sam and Greta, then at Darcy. “I guess we really are in the right direction, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well,” says Darcy, smiling, “I suppose now we’re about to find out.”


	10. Darcy Kingsley

“Shit,” says Samuel, “it’s not working.”

Right across from Darcy, Samuel grumbles and draws a sigh, his face creasing in utter frustration. He and Nathan have been busily tinkering around the pedestal’s mechanism with careful concentration, but their efforts to figure it out have been all for naught. Of course, they all should have anticipated that this wouldn’t be _that_ easy. The key fits, sure enough—the soft click when Nathan inserted it into the slot was enough indication that it was meant to be there—and yet it is most upsetting that nothing quite interesting happened after all that. 

“So,” says Nathan, pulling his notebook out of his pocket, “any ideas, guys? I feel like we’re missing something here.” He stands next to Darcy and begins to leaf through his notes, and she catches a glimpse of sketches and maps on its pages, some plane tickets and letters taped haphazardly, a Polaroid photo of him with Samuel and Leticia clipped somewhere in between. Had their situation been any different, Darcy would have loved to ask Nathan more about that photo, but she recognizes that now is not the right time.

“Let’s see,” says her mother, who has been rather preoccupied at the other side of the chamber, reviewing a page from Rembrandt’s journal. She goes over to them and smooths it out on the pedestal for everyone to see. “Well, apart from how to arrange the key—” she points at a specific section on the paper— “he writes Rehoboam, Taphath, and Basemath should not heed their father’s directions, and that they should not head south, east, and west. Though I’m afraid I can’t make sense of it.”

“Huh.” Samuel stares at the page, drums a thoughtful finger against his chin. His brows knit together as if he is trying to remember something. “Greta, what did you say this room was again? This wasn’t the tomb of Jesus, was it?”

“No—Jesus’s tomb should be somewhere right above us,” she explains. “This chamber is some sort of mausoleum that dates back around 600 century BC. It’s one of the many remains of earlier buildings underneath the church. The others are completely in ruins when Henry and I found them, and this one is by far the most intact. Well, all things considered.”

Darcy looks around the room. It is true that while the chamber is poorly preserved, a bit worse for wear with all the littered slabs of stone and severed limbs of sculptures, it is impressive to see how some parts of it have endured the test of thousands upon thousands of years: the pedestal, with its pristine floral carvings of silver; the corners of limestone walls and its collection of cobwebs; the three marble statues circling the room, all weathered and dusty and broken that have simply aged with time. 

Samuel leans an elbow on the pedestal, scans the notes, reads and rereads it. “Rehoboam, Taphath, and Basemath,” he mutters. He looks at Nathan curiously. “These three… aren’t they—“

“They’re King Solomon’s children,” says Nathan matter-of-factly. “Goddamnit, we’re in for another puzzle.”

Samuel sighs. He digs deep into his pocket for a cigarette. “So,” he says, lighting a stick and exhaling a thread of smoke, “aren’t we in quite a pickle.”

Darcy shoots him a withering look. “Must you really smoke at a time like this? And in a holy place at that?” She crosses her arms over her chest, and she is quickly reminded how she is still drenched from her earlier accident with the way her shirt clung to her skin. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll save it for confession and ask for forgiveness later.” He shrugs, gives her an impish smile. “Besides,” he says, “I need to think.” He takes another long drag on his cigarette.

“And how does burning your lungs help you think?”

Nathan exhales an amused chuckle. “Honestly, I’ve been asking him that same question,” he tells Darcy, slapping a hand over her shoulder. “But don’t bother talking him out of it—it’s my brother’s trick to get his brain to function.” 

“And how many cigarettes does it take, then? An entire pack?” 

“Ooh, damn.” Nathan feigns a wince and laughs. “Wow, Sam… I gotta hand it to Darcy, that is—forgive my pun—one sick burn—”

“Ha, can it.” Samuel wrinkles his nose, makes a wry face. “You two smart asses are clearly enjoying this, huh?”

Darcy tries her hardest to suppress a laugh. “Sort of. I’m sorry.”

“Right. You’re lucky, Jane, that I find you, uh...” He trails off, pauses, chews on his bottom lip. Is that a blush she catches on his face? She couldn’t tell with the poor lighting from this chamber.

“Do go on, say it—you find me what exactly?” she insists, one curious brow lifted.

“Um, nothing. Nevermind.” He waves a diffident hand, awkwardly reaches for the back of his head. “Anyway, moving along,” he says swiftly, taking the last drag and then crushing the butt beneath his heel, “how could we possibly find another mechanism or a puzzle with… y’know, all this rubble?” He expels a troubled sigh and looks at Nathan. “I mean, what if this is it? What if there’s really nothing to be seen here—“

“I don’t think so, Sam,” says Nathan shrewdly. “I mean, it’s too late to start getting doubts now because look—” he sweeps a foot on the dusty floor, revealing a faded mosaic of what used to be a colourful arrangement of marble tiles— _“this_ is already pretty telling, isn’t it?” 

Nathan gestures a hand to the floor. With all the dirt and dust, it’s hard to make out the figures, but with one closer look, it is easy enough to see that the area around the pedestal depicts a picture of a pair of cherubs. 

Samuel is visibly pleased. “Huh, whaddaya know. It’s that motif again.”

“Exactly.”

“Looks the same with Rembrandt’s sketches, too.”

“And not only that, the patterns of these tiles are clearly Phoenician. And as you know, Phoenician architects—”

“—were the ones who designed the First Temple—yes, I know.” Samuel pensively rubs a hand over his jaw. “Most of the structures in Jerusalem around 700 century BC were constructed by them, so this should be no surprise,” he adds. Then, rather sheepishly, he turns to Darcy and her mother. “Unless, uh... our resident historian cares to refute?”

Greta smiles amusedly. “No, you are both right,” she confirms. “I must say, you two really have a good eye with these things. Colour me impressed.”

“Well,” says Nathan, “we owe a great deal of that from all the dinner conversations with our mom, so. Yeah.” His tone is mellowed by a sudden sadness. Which really doesn’t surprise Darcy. From what she had gathered in all of the evenings she spent listening to Samuel’s stories, it is clear enough to understand that their mother had played an influential part in their enormous passion for discovering the unknown, and that he and Nathan loved her very much. Darcy can only imagine how badly they wanted to share this moment with their mother. 

If she could, she wanted to share this with her own father, too.

“In any case, little brother,” says Samuel, quickly clearing his throat to dispel the mournful silence, clapping a firm hand on Nathan’s back, “I suppose we just have to keep on looking around and—”

“Perhaps try the statues around the room?” suggests Darcy. “I may not know much about Solomon’s children, but Rembrandt mentioned there’s three of them, and there are three of those statues right there, and the directions may be similar to how we arranged the key, so…”

The brothers stare at Darcy as if she had just spoken a revelation from the universe. Then they look at each other. Bright, knowing grins grow on both their faces.

Samuel turns to Darcy, excitedly squishing her cheeks. “Baby, you’re a goddamn genius.”

“And you’re impossibly annoying,” Darcy retorts, swatting his hand away. 

Meanwhile, Nathan is watching them keenly, beaming with every bit of amusement. “Look at you two,” he says teasingly. “Nicely progressing to the pet name stage, I see. How cute.”

Greta cracks a delightful laugh. “Oh, Nathan—I’m certain they’ve already progressed far _more_ than that—”

“Mum!” Now Darcy hopes she isn’t furiously blushing like a fool. “Look, that’s… that _is_ not—”

_“Anyway,_ ladies—the statues are waiting, _”_ says Samuel, cutting them off all at once as he hurriedly drifts to the other side of the room, saving Darcy the breath of having to explain anything about the current nature of their relationship. “Uh, Nathan, would you be so kind as to give me a hand with this?”

Still laughing, Nathan nods and follows Samuel, and they both start to inspect each of the marble statues. Two of these are sculpted with a more shapely, feminine form, while the one in the middle of the room is bearded and clearly male. On the bases of all statues, the carved text has faded, which makes it all the more difficult to decipher. From afar, it’s hard to tell the difference when all of these figures share something in common: they are all wearing a crown, their bodies draped with a long robe of sorts. They are also either chipped at its surface or missing a limb. 

How Nathan and Samuel are able to distinguish one from the other, Darcy cannot tell, let alone how they figured out who’s who. But they do manage to make the statues turn and have it face the directions opposite from the ones instructed on the note.

A click and a soft thud. A chorus of engine churns. Before Darcy, the pedestal emits a faint glow, and the key box sinks in its surface. 

She and her mother turn to each other and exchange a look of genuine surprise.

All at once, the ground rumbles. The tiled floor around the pedestal slowly unravels, revealing a wide, winding staircase leading down under.

“Holy shit,” says Nathan. “It worked.”

Samuel laughs a triumphant laugh. “I guess we have to thank Father Duffy for going through lengths to describe Basemath and Taphath for us,” he says, clearly impressed despite himself. “And I gotta say— _this_ is some surprisingly sophisticated engineering. How on earth was this kind of contraption even available during that time?”

“Beats me,” answers Nathan, still smiling from ear to ear. “But also, what I’d really like to know…” Just as his smile fades to a mildly serious expression, he turns to Greta. “If these statues were named after King Solomon’s children, and considering all these debris of Phoenician-inspired architecture, do you think… we’re actually standing in the ruins of the First Temple?”

Greta says nothing, but she considers Nathan for a long, pensive moment. Darcy knows that look from her mother quite well: she is either already lost in thought or ruminating on what to say next. But Darcy doubts it is anything harsh or cutting. The sad smile passing her mother’s face speaks enough.

“You know,” says Greta after a solemn silence, “you boys just proved how my husband was _right_ all along. The evidence we’ve been looking for, it’s been right under our noses all this time and—”

“Hands in the air.”

The words abruptly cut off Greta, and Darcy freezes to a nervous pause, her heart sinking to her stomach. 

There are so many things that instantly run through her mind the second she hears that voice that belongs neither to her mother nor Nathan and Samuel, and at that particular moment, she wants to scorn herself for letting her guard down, for having been too preoccupied on the pedestal that they all failed to notice that a wall on the other end of the chamber has opened up a passage.

But it is too late for all of that. 

Next thing she knows, an army of footsteps storm the room, and a burly man’s arm is wrapped around her neck, a gun pointed to her head.

“Drop your weapons,” orders another man. “One wrong move and he’ll shoot this woman dead.”

Darcy stiffens. She watches Nathan and Samuel cautiously oblige as they put their guns on the floor, slowly raising their hands back up as they do. Even her mother pulls out a knife from the back pocket of her trousers. Darcy had no idea she even carried one with her. 

Another group of heavily armed men emerges from the newly-opened passage. This time, they are led by one familiar face.

“If it isn’t Mr. Roman himself,” Nathan greets dryly. “What a surprise to have the actual spawn of the devil join us— _ah, fuck!”_

Nathan stumbles forward and sinks to his knees as one of the armed guys slams a gun on the back of his neck. Another one drags him back to his feet. Darcy watches Roman order the rest of his men—or, more accurately, Santa Blanca men—to gather Nathan and Samuel and her mother, lining them up in the middle of the chamber.

“So you two are the Drake brothers,” says Roman, assessing both Nathan and Samuel from head to toe with a look of absolute disdain. He rolls the sleeves of his gray-and-white striped shirt up to his elbows. “And you…” He narrows his eyes at Samuel. “You’re the one from the gala.”

Samuel is gritting his teeth. “Well, sir,” he says, his tone full of contempt, “that’s awfully nice of you to remember me—”

“And who do we have here?” Roman casually dismisses Samuel and turns his attention to Darcy’s mother instead. A sickeningly snide smile crosses his sickeningly smug face. “Highly acclaimed historian Margarita Kingsley? You must know, I’m an admirer of your work and your husband’s, and I’m surprised to know that you actually work with... lowlife scum.”

“Lowlife scum?” she repeats. There is something deliberately frightening with the way she is staring at Roman, how her eyes do not waver at the slightest, how her face does not even wrinkle into a smile. Darcy has never seen her mother like this before, still and seething and scathing. “That’s strange. I don’t remember working with the likes of _you.”_

Both Nathan and Samuel stifle their laughter. Roman, however, regards Greta for a moment with an amused smile. Then, he laughs. He laughs openly as if that jest was a compliment made to earn his favour. 

And then, as quick as lightning, the back of his hand strikes like a thunderous clap on Greta’s face. 

Darcy is too stunned to speak. An overwhelming wave of rage foams at her throat. She can see how her mother’s right cheek visibly reddens, a streak of blood tracing the side of her mouth. And yet her mother stands there, unfazed. She does not cower. Still turns her head to look straight at Roman. Holds his gaze like a challenging invitation. The look in her eyes spits a wordless mockery as if to say, _You can never hurt me._

“Is that all you have for me?” Greta says calmly and coldly. If Darcy has never been terrified of her mother’s brazenness before, she sure is terrified of it _now._

Roman clicks his tongue, his smile broader than the last. “You’re a feisty one, I should say. And I suppose—” he turns around, and this time, he fixes his eyes on Darcy— “the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree?”

Darcy bristles with utmost fury. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Such crass. How delightful.” He considers her for a moment, circles her like a predator finally cornering his prey, eager to sink his teeth in. “I have to say, the little trick you pulled in Amsterdam to lose us was quite clever of you. But in any case—you have my thanks.”

She casts a hateful look in his direction. “Thanks for what?” 

“For making the work easier for all of us,” he says all too pleasantly. He smiles that infuriatingly arrogant smile of his again. God, what she would give to punch the teeth out of his face. “If you must know,” he goes on, “I spent years deciphering your father’s notes. They were very comprehensive. He had it all figured out: from Rembrandt’s travels that no other historian ever bothered to study, down to his artworks that traced all the way back to his surprising discovery of this place. And I think it is just fitting that I should thank you and your mother for continuing your father’s work. You saved me all the time and trouble.”

Darcy lets his words marinate for one excruciating moment. The things he said, he said it all quite calmly, and even as she listened to him, she felt a small lump growing in the pit of her stomach. Now, it might as well be a boulder, a hill, a mountain rising at the edge of her mouth. The picture of a realization is no longer obscure, and it is staring right back at her, vivid and bright and cruel.

“It was _you,”_ someone says at last. It was her mother. Her voice is flat and strange even to Darcy. “You were that art collector wanting to buy our research on Rembrandt.”

“So you remember.” Roman nods, smiles once more. His face, lit starkly by one of the lamps, is pale against the dimness of the chamber. “Made quite a number of calls, but you two were quite difficult to convince. Henry, most especially. He was rather too stubborn. If only he was wise enough to accept my offer. Poor chap defended his work with his life, and well, I can’t say if that’s honourable or plain stupid. It is most unfortunate that—”

“You wretched little fucker do not get to speak of my husband like that when you stole his life’s work. And mine.” It does not even sound close to an accusation but more of a firm, grounded statement. Her gaze on Roman is steady, intense. “And you killed him for it.”

He looks at her for a moment, and then, to Darcy’s—and even to everyone’s—utter surprise, he laughs.

“Oh, no, no. Of course not. It was not _me."_ he says coolly. “I had someone else do it.”

The darkness of the chamber hangs in their circle as heavy and palpable as a sodden curtain. With a dizzying, maddening rush, Darcy experiences for a moment both a claustrophobic feeling that the walls had closed in on her and a sharp bite of an old horror that plays like a film reel suspended in the same scene over and over and over. And just like that, it is her birthday again, and she has just turned eighteen, and she is back in her father’s office, staring at the bloodied carpet, the bloodied books, his bloodied face. She remembers it as clear as day. She swallows, and she looks back at Roman. “You son of a bitch—”

Her words are lost when a gunshot rings throughout the room. 

And then fires another. 

All at once, something warm and wet trickles from the crown of her head down to the side of her cheek. In a strange and confusing moment, Darcy thinks she is the one who has been shot; she feels her face with her fingers, takes a look at her hands. 

She sees nothing but red. 

Blood. But not hers. 

The man holding a firm grip around her neck pulls away, crashes on the floor. She turns around slowly and dazedly. She finds him swimming in a pool of his own blood, two holes on his forehead.

What shortly follows is a baffling and blurry affair of rattling gunshots coming from all corners. A squad of gun-wielding, nowhere-near-priestly men in cassocks storm the chamber firing at Roman’s group, charging and spitting curses, some in Hebrew and some in the distinctly familiar click of Xhosa she only hears from Nadine, and in a brief second, Darcy realizes that they are Lola’s mercenary friends. She would have made a mental note to tell Lola how ridiculously inappropriate their disguises are, but clearly, she has no time for that when she’s trying her best not to get shot for good as she makes a mad dash for her life and onto the other side of the room. In all that noise and mess, she hardly notices Samuel until he grabs her by the arm and drags her behind a massive slab of broken concrete. He foists a loaded gun on her, and before she can even complain about not knowing how to use one, a burly fellow sneaks up on them, assault rifle in hand. 

They would have been dead in a heartbeat if not for Samuel who is quick enough to shoot the guy straight in the face.

Darcy blinks, stares at the macabre sight of the eyeless dead man at her feet. Around them, the vicious crackle of gunfire is deafening. She could taste the copper tang of blood, hear the white noise, the shrill static of it getting louder and louder and—

Samuel seizes her by the shoulders. “Jane, are you hurt?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Alright, then we have to go—”

“Where’s Mum? And Nathan—”

“They already went ahead—they should be waiting for us below.” He takes her face with both hands, wipes the blood off her face. “Jane. Promise you’ll stay close to me, alright?”

“Right.”

“And the gun, just point and shoot it like a camera, okay?”

She nods absently. “Okay.” Elsewhere, a helpless, piercing shriek echoes. Another exchange of gunfire. She swallows, nods again. “Okay, got it.”

Hands still shaking, one trembling finger ready and curled around the trigger of a stranger’s gun, Darcy follows Samuel out into the fray. He shoots down anyone who blocks their path as they race past all the armoured men and priests in disguise, past the debris, past all the trail of dead bodies. The chamber is thick with the smell of smoke and blood. There is no time to catch her breath. This is no longer a place for mercy. They leave the rest of Roman’s crew in the hands of Lola’s men—with one of them, a huge man in a white cassock, covering for their escape and gesturing for them to hurry, guiding them towards the pedestal and onto the staircase leading underground. 

With the sound of the ruthless exchange of bullets slowly fading behind them, they make their hurried descent. The stairs spiral steeply into a dark, winding path of polished marble and they both flick their flashlights to illuminate their way. She adjusts her pace to keep up with his leaden shuffle as they keep going down and down below; Darcy cannot tell where it ends, or if it even ends at all. There is nothing but darkness ahead. The echoes of their footsteps drumming against the floor and the erratic thrumming of their ragged breaths rally against the silence. 

Soon enough, the path curves into amber light. A cold draft blows softly. She sees small torches perched in golden sconces on both sides of the walls, and at the bottom of the steps, a carved archway welcomes them into a wide, bright vestibule.

It takes a little while for Darcy’s eyes to adapt to the light, but slowly, the sight before her finally sinks in.

The colossal columns, the elaborate walls, the glossy floor… 

Everything is made of gold. Gold as far as the eyes can see.

Samuel screeches into a dazed halt. “Holy fucking _shit,”_ he says, absolutely astounded. The entire chamber is so massive that they can barely see the details of the painted ceiling; at the other end of the room, an equally massive double door looms. He wipes his damp forehead with the back of his hand. “This is… god—” he quickly covers his mouth, then raises both his hands— “Sorry. I mean, Lord most high, please don’t pulverize me to dust—”

“Sam, Darcy!” 

From behind a pillar, Nathan appears along with Greta, smiling and waving a hand. 

Darcy wastes no second and rushes in to hug her mother. “Mum, are you okay?” She rests a hand on her still-swollen cheek. “Back there, you didn’t have to—”

“It’s fine, _mija.”_ Her mother offers her a warm smile, presses the palms of her hands on her face. “And I’m fine. Besides, in the years I spent in this profession, I have dealt with more difficult men than that bastard,” she says plainly. 

“Still, Greta—you had us all worried,” adds Nathan. “I mean, those guys clearly weren’t screwing around and you just… showed them who’s got bigger balls.”

Darcy rolls her eyes, gives him a stern look. “Nathan—”

“It’s alright, I’m taking that as a compliment.” Greta laughs, resting a firm hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “But anyway, how’d you lose Roman’s crew?”

It is Samuel who answers her. “Well,” he begins, “Lola’s guys came to the rescue and covered for us, and—”

“Here you all are.”

_Oh, for fuck’s sake, not again._ As if summoned again by the devil himself, Roman saunters in accompanied by three big men, all of them pointing their guns at Darcy and the others. He orders his thugs (technically, still Javi’s) to round everyone up, taking away all the firearms in their possession. Meanwhile, Roman wanders off, taking his sweet time to marvel over the impressive expanse of the vestibule. 

“My god, would you look at all of _this.”_ He is just as amazed as they had been when they first stepped foot in the place. He rests his hands on his hips, his cold and calculating eyes assessing the area, the space, the grandness of it. “The actual First Temple. All these years, and it’s been sitting right under our noses unscathed. To think everyone believed this has been destroyed and buried under the Temple Mount—”

“That’s because everyone assumed it was built in the Temple Mount and that the rest of its architecture was _above_ ground,” Nathan breaks in loftily. “But that’s what most historians tell us. Thing is, there was no exact location as to where it was built as far as the Biblical texts are concerned. Not that you would know anything about it.”

Roman’s face curls with an irritating smirk. “Always the smartest fellow in the room, aren’t you, Mr. Drake?”

“Uh, if I may,” chimes in Samuel, slightly raising a hand, “you have to be more specific because there’s the two of us right here.”

“Of course.” His face turns to stone. “Well then, I suppose there should only be one of you left behind—” 

“No, hold on for just a moment!” Darcy cuts him off just before Roman could even draw his gun. She formulates the quickest bluff she could muster and so she says, “We need both of them to figure out the mechanism of the door up ahead. They’re the ones who got the key to function.”

“Is that so?” Roman seems to mull this over. “But look at us, we’re too many to share this glory. Unless,” he says, now pulling out his gun, “you’re willing to trade your own life for theirs— _Jesus Christ!”_

At first, it was hard to tell if it was a sudden shout of praise or an actual curse, but it was the sharp and loud crack of a gunshot that came before it that makes all the difference. Because right then and there, Roman falls on his knees, roaring in pain, blood dripping from his thigh. 

And behind Roman, standing by the archway, is Javi.

_What on bloody earth is happening—_

“Your audacity to take my men around with false instructions from me is impressive, I must say.” Javi casually approaches Roman as if he had not been the one who shot him. He looks down on his supposedly partner-in-crime crumpled on the ground, bleeding all over the glossy, golden floor. More of his guys shuffle in from the archway. “And really,” he goes on, shoving his hands inside his pockets, “what part of not putting the Kingsleys in danger did you not understand, _Señor_ Roman?”

Roman’s face twists in anger. “Why do you even care about what happens to them, you sick bastard— _fucking hell!_ ”

Javi shoots him again, this time on the shoulder. Roman’s scream of pain is just as piercing as the last.

“And you are an old fool.” Javi crouches right in front of a doubled over Roman, tilts his head, smiles. “You know,” he says, “I really do not like it when people betray my trust. And we agreed on one simple thing, _Señor_ Roman. One fucking thing. And still, you failed to honour your part of that agreement like the absolute incompetent idiot that you are.” His tone is unnervingly calm. But Javi makes it clear that he is seething, the way he squeezes Roman’s wounded shoulder so hard that he lets out a horrible groan. “So I have to say that the deal is off. But don’t worry, I’ll let you live. I’m sure you can find other ways to pay your debt to the cartel.” With one small jerk of his head, two men pull Roman up and drag him away, the poor man limping as they do. 

Javi wipes his blood-soaked hand with a handkerchief, and then he turns his gaze on his three men who had been with Roman. _“_ _Y todos ustedes creíste este pinche cabrón?”_

They all stiffen. The tallest of three is the one who answers. _“Lo siento,”_ he begins, _“pero jefe—”_

Three loud cracks like claps of thunder. The man does not even get to finish his sentence when Javi plants a bullet between his eyes. He does the same with his companions. 

Javi does not even bat an eyelash, killing his own men. 

A terrifying pause. Darcy glances uneasily at the ring of faces around her, Nathan, her mother. She and Samuel exchange a look of dumbfounded horror. His look says, _Your ex-boyfriend’s a fucking madman._

Darcy blinks, responds to it with a horrid, bewildered look that could be summarized as, _I had no idea._

And it is true. Darcy really had no fucking clue that Javi could be ever like… _this._ Yes, sure, she was perfectly aware of the dangerous nature of his family business and had full knowledge of the menace brought about by the Santa Blanca Cartel, and what he did to Samuel back in Hampton Court Palace was clearly a showcase of what Javi can do. But beating someone up to a bloody pulp is one thing, this ruthless execution is certainly another. She never quite wrapped her head around the notion that Javi was actually capable of this kind of violence. That he could sully his hands with blood. The heartlessness of it. It is a jarring thing to reconcile how the man she once knew—the soft-spoken and charming old lover who wrote her poems and painted portraits of her and made her sandwiches and adored her so dearly—is the same man before her.

“Now do what you must,” Javi tells Darcy after a sickly pause. Something about the tone of his voice is cold, empty. When his eyes meet hers, he quickly turns away. “I’ll take care of everything here—”

“I don’t understand you,” Darcy finds herself saying out loud. “Why are you doing this?”

He purses his lips, glances at the ceiling, smiles to himself. All at once, he looks like the boy she once loved and not the cartel kingpin that terrified her. “Why else do you think?”

Darcy opens her mouth to speak, but falters. She stares at her shoes, catches a glimpse of her mess of a reflection on the golden floor.

“Go,” urges Javi. “Just go.”

Darcy says nothing and nods. With Samuel taking her hand, she follows Nathan and her mother up the steps and into the door without ever looking back.

* * *

It is three a.m. and somewhere in a quiet neighbourhood in southwest London, at the end of Darlaston Road, Darcy is back again in her mother’s house. While everyone else has already hit the sack, no doubt exhausted from the long flight and the partial jet lag (and, not to mention, the hours they still spent the entire evening on rounds upon rounds of Uno when Leticia—teeming with energy despite it all—managed to convince her and Samuel and Nathan to play “just one game” over their late dinner), Darcy is sitting wide awake on her father’s favourite spot on the patio, nursing a warm cup of tea, her mind lingering restlessly elsewhere. A gentle summer breeze keeps her company. Fronds of trees surrounding their backyard whistle and wave in the wind. It is strangely cold. 

Truth is, the house doesn’t feel right. Everything looks just the same as how they have left it when they departed for their journey, and yet something seems awfully different. In a certain sense, coming home feels a lot like waking up from a long, fever dream. 

Heck, the memory of seeing the First Temple in its full and utter glory feels like a fucking fever dream. 

Darcy fiddles at the blank space in her necklace where the obelisk used to be. _Everything that happened is real,_ she tells herself, as if the absence of that silver between her fingers is her solid proof of what they had seen. She had only heard stories from her father about these ancient ruins and buried cities and all sorts of these undiscovered places most people in his field considered as myths. He always ended up debating its existence; for him, a myth is like smoke, the way it leaves a trail that exhibits a glimpse of another truth. A different side of the story. 

And as they say, where there is smoke, there is most certainly fire.

Though Darcy’s entire childhood was shaped with her father’s stories, not once in her life did she imagine herself searching for a lost temple, let alone actually finding one. And finding the First Temple is a bizarre experience—which, to be fair, the word _bizarre_ is still an understatement and falls criminally short to the enormity of what they found. The vestibule, the massive doors, everything made of gold. And past those doors was an even grander chamber: the Holy of Holies.

As soon as they entered the room, Darcy immediately recognized the ornate palm trees and flowers painted on its walls, the pair of cherubim that stood side by side, the two-leaved door between it. Every nook and cranny dipped in gold. Samuel and Nathan could hardly believe what they were seeing, too. Even the look on her mother’s face was that of pure awe. 

Rembrandt was right. It was an otherworldly sight to behold. And treasure or no, the place itself was already quite a find.

Somehow, Darcy understood why Rembrandt chose to walk away with nothing. He could have seized the opportunity to steal the Ark of the Covenant or to make known of its location. Or even chip away a portion of the golden floors as a souvenir. But he did not do any of these things. She may never fully grasp nor will she ever understand his motivations, but what she understands now is this: he was truly an artist through and through. He found something beautiful and he chose to preserve it the only way he knew how: with ink and paper. He sketched, drew, painted. He did not come to pillage or plunder. After all, after seeing the temple with her own eyes, to come face to face with such beauty can be so utterly terrifying. There is power in its wonder. It is divinity in the flesh. What choice do men have but to quiver before it?

Still, it was no surprise to Darcy that her mother decided to study the temple even further, and she was determined to make sure that the place was duly preserved and protected by the right authorities. Of course, Lola immediately volunteered to help her out in these efforts. Which was just about right. It would be unwise to leave a significant archaeological site that housed an artifact of equally significant importance without proper governance; it would only fall prey to more scheming fortune seekers like Roman. And being fortune seekers themselves, it was quite astonishing that Samuel and Nathan did not object to the idea. If anything, they were keenly supportive. (“To be fair, we’re not anything like that guy back there,” clarified Samuel, to which Nathan nodded approvingly and added, “For what it’s worth, discovering this temple is a prize in and of itself. Mom would’ve shat herself if she were here.”) 

_And my father would have probably lost his mind if he had been there, too,_ she thinks all over again.

“Hey, darling—can’t sleep, too?”

Darcy looks up and finds Victor standing behind the screen door. He gently swings it open so as to not make a creak, closes it behind him, drifts to the empty wicker chair next to her. His cheeks are pale, his face still tired. 

“Hi. Well, yes,” she says. “Still a bit reeling from the journey, I suppose.” She stares at her cup of tea. “Oh, do you fancy a cup of—”

“No, it’s alright, Darcy. I’m fine—thanks.” Victor smiles, waves a hand. He leans back on his seat and reaches into his pocket for a cigar. “Truth be told, I still couldn’t quite wrap my head around it, too. It was quite something, isn’t it? The temple.”

Darcy nods fondly. “Yeah, it sure is.”

“But how are you? Heard everything from Nate and Sam. Especially what happened in the cave.”

“Oh, that.” Darcy chews on her bottom lip. It’s still embarrassing to admit that she almost drowned and caused such a stir. “I’m good,” she says. “Thankfully Samuel had been around, or else I’d be lost at the bottom of an underground pool.”

Victor laughs. “I’m glad he came to your rescue. You know, now that I think about it, I remember back in the day, I often told your old man to take you and your sister to swimming lessons. But he never listened.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He was more eager to take you both to his dig sites. You probably won’t remember it, but that’s how we first met. You threw a rock at me and Charlie because you thought we were teaming up to fight your dad.”

Darcy makes a face. “I think I remember that day.” And she does remember it quite clearly. She was seven years old, and turns out they were merely getting into a heated debate about the Scandinavian artifacts they were supposed to find. It was a mortifying memory. “I’m sorry about that,” she says, embarrassed.

“Nah, it’s alright. You were simply defending your father’s honour.”

They smile at each other and laugh.

“But anyway,” says Victor. He blows a veil of smoke. “You and Sam, huh.”

Darcy quirks an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, nothing.” He shrugs. A broad, knowing smile passes his face. “You two seem to get along now, is all.”

“I suppose.”

“And Sam isn’t all that bad.”

“I know.”

“I can tell that you like him better now.”

“That’s one way of putting it, yes."

“Anywho,” he says, “I have to admit though, you guys had us sick with worry back there.” He draws deeply again in his cigarettes, exhales. “When that Javier guy called Lola, we all thought you were done for. I was already gearing up to back you all up and nearly out of the door until Lola told me that the fella wanted a truce. Says a bad deal changed his mind. I’m tellin’ ya, we almost lost our shit.”

Darcy says nothing. It all sounds absolutely ridiculous, if she thinks about what Javi pulled off. She still finds it hard to believe. What he has done for them— _for you,_ her mother insisted, and still insists, even in her head—is so, _so_ strange. It’s difficult to process the more she tries to make sense of it. Perhaps...

Perhaps it would be best if she foregoes the wretched thought.

“Right, anyway,” she says, uncomfortably shifting in her seat, squeezing her hands around her cup, “I heard from Nathan that you all decided to stay a couple more days?”

“Oh, right.” Victor beams. “Well, I promised Leticia I’ll show her around London this time and I figured since we’re already here, staying a little bit won’t be so bad. Besides, she’d been stuck in the hotel for days when we first got here, so I’d like to make it up to her.”

“Yes, that seems fair.” Darcy remembers that day in the garden café overlooking the River Thames. It feels like years now, oddly enough. “So,” she says, “where are you planning on taking her? I can recommend a few places, if you’d like.”

“We’d love that. You’re far too kind.”

“Least I could do to make your stay worthwhile.”

A comfortable silence lingers in their midst. Darcy takes a sip of her tea, sets her cup down the table between them. The trees rustle with the gentle breeze.

“Hey, Victor?”

“Yeah?”

“Mind if I ask you something?”

“Sure—what about?”

“It’s just…” Darcy hesitates. There’s something she has been meaning to ask Victor, a strange, little detail that has been bothering her for quite some time since their trip to Amsterdam. She is well aware that it is not her place to interfere with other people’s affairs, and so she musters all courage and begins to ask, “How come you’re not telling Leticia the truth?”

Victor’s expression goes from genuine confusion to a clear realization in less than a second. He sighs, mashes his cigar on the ashtray. A sad smile crosses his face.

“How did you find out?”

“Well, the usual,” says Darcy. “But it doesn’t matter. What matters is why you’re not telling Leticia that you’re her _real_ father.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Darcy frowns. “How is it not easy? Victor, she’s your own flesh and blood.”

“I know.”

“Then may I ask why? Honestly, I just don’t see the point why you’re hiding this from her—”

“Because I abandoned her when she and her mother needed me most,” he says sharply. Victor takes a deep breath, exhales a trembling sigh. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s fine. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pressed on the subject.”

Another silence. This time, their wordlessness is thick with unease.

Victor heaves another sigh. “Look, I’m just… I’m scared,” he says after a while. “I’m scared that if she finds out, she’d hate me for leaving her and her mother.”

“I don’t think she’d hate you.”

“How could you be so sure?”

“Because you came back for her. You found her again.”

“Well, I reckon that won’t be enough—”

“Victor.” Darcy gives him her sharpest, sternest look. She hardly ever spoke to him like this before, she has always regarded him dearly and affectionately, but with the way things are now, she cannot take it to stand idly by not doing or saying something.

She stares at her hands. Over the horizon, the sun has begun to rise, slowly painting the sky a beautiful shade of pink. “You see,” she says, “my time with my father has been cut short. If I could, I’d like to bring back all those days I spent with him. But we both know that’s impossible.” She pauses. “I suppose the point I’m trying to make here is that you guys… you still have time together. So don’t spend the rest of it with her by living a lie. I don’t think it’s worth it. And trust me—Leticia loves you. I saw how much she’s been keen to meet her real father, and if she learns that it’s been you all along, I can only imagine how delighted she would be. So I implore you, Victor—tell her the truth. Because the more you keep this a secret, the more she’ll resent you. She needs to know, and she needs to know it from you.”

They are both quiet for a while. Then, he says, “Okay, I’ll try—”

“No. Promise me you _will_ tell her.”

He holds her firm, unrelenting gaze. Then, with another sigh, he says: “Fine. I will.”

“Good.”

Victor considers Darcy for a moment. He says nothing, and yet a fond, amused smile slowly spreads all over his face as if to speak of something else.

“What’s funny?” she asks.

“No, it’s… I realized how much you sound a lot like Henry,” he tells her. “We always got ourselves in trouble, Charlie and I, and Henry always spared us some sensible advice when we needed it. He was the level-headed one among us. Always the one with the good head on his shoulders. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised—you are your father’s daughter, after all. And I’m sure as hell he’d be proud to see how far you’ve come.”

Darcy stares at Victor. Somehow, she finds herself smiling, wiping her eyes trying to fight back her tears, looking away. “I miss him. I wish he was still here.”

He rests a comforting hand on top of hers. His hand is warm and steady. “Me too, Darcy,” he replies. “Me too.”

The days breeze by into a sweet and indistinct blur. From her bedroom window, Darcy sees how summer is preparing its farewell, with the scorching afternoons slowly losing its warmth, the trees with its gradual turn of colour. She feels that there is a metaphor somewhere in the changing of seasons, but she decides not to linger on that thought too much.

She looks at the freshly developed photos on her desk, the ones from Samuel’s disposable camera. _He has some lovely shots,_ she thinks, somehow rather impressed. He really did manage to capture a lot of moments from Amsterdam to Jerusalem, especially their most recent sightseeing trips around London. Apart from the occasional, competitive game of Scrabble before breakfast and another game of Uno right after dinner, most of their time had been dedicated outdoors. Darcy did stay true to her word; she gave Victor a list of places in London that he and Leticia could go around and visit. Apparently, Nathan and Samuel were coming along, too, (no surprise in that regard) and as usual, Leticia insisted that Darcy joined them. As much as she would have politely declined, she couldn’t; after all, they were bound to leave for the States in a couple of days. She could not bear _not_ to spend time with them as much as she possibly could.

And so Darcy obliged to be their tour guide and showed them around the city with Leticia absolutely eager to tick off all the places they had on Darcy’s list. Victor didn’t seem to mind at all. The brothers were just as thrilled about it, anyway. They took a private tour around the Tower of London, a trip down the colourful streets of Camden. They stopped by Borough Market, where different stallholders pulled out plate after plate of sample pastries, British cheeses, Spanish charcuterie and handmade Belgian chocolates. They explored more museums and botanical gardens and royal palaces. (London had loads of them, Darcy knew well, and it was hard for her to decide which ones were the best to go.) Most of the time, Nathan would sit over a bench and take his time to sketch, as if he was doing his best to commit their trip to memory. Leticia would sometimes watch him draw as he told her the history behind certain pieces they came across an exhibit. Then there was Samuel, armed with his disposable camera, who never failed to take sneaky and candid photos of Darcy every chance he got. (And pretty much everyone else, but mostly it was Darcy, and she can very well see it now.) Victor, meanwhile, spoiled Leticia rotten whenever she stumbled upon a local souvenir shop or a hole-in-the-wall clothing store. Best believe when Darcy took them to Oxford Street’s shopping lane, they probably would’ve ended up buying every colour of a Care Bear if not for Nathan reminding them that Victor’s plane could only carry a limited amount of luggage.

It was easy to tell how Victor was determined to make it up to his daughter in more ways than one. To somehow make things right. 

And much to Darcy’s relief, he finally came around to keep his promise.

It happened one afternoon, after watching a matinee performance of _Macbeth_ at The Old Vic, Darcy was on her way back to her room when she caught Victor speaking to Leticia inside her mother’s study. The door was slightly ajar; the indistinct chatter of voices piqued her curiosity. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop and she only meant to take a little peek, but then she saw Leticia crying. Darcy was just about to bust the door open and give Victor a piece of her mind again until she heard Leticia saying: “I always wished for you to come back for me, _Papá,_ and now you’re here.” 

Needless to say, Darcy walked away and furtively closed the door to give them space before she could find herself crying, too.

A shriek of bell-like laughter echoes from downstairs. Outside, the mechanical hum of passing vehicles competes against the rustling trees.

Darcy browses more of Samuel’s photos, and she spots one of Leticia along with Victor and Nathan in Borough Market. Her lips curve into a fond smile. She decides to keep it and tucks it inside her journal.

“Stealing _my_ pictures now, are you?”

Darcy nearly falls out of her seat just as her heart plummets to her stomach at an alarming rate when she turns to find Samuel standing right behind her.

“For fuck’s sake!” She shoves him back, slaps him repeatedly on his chest as he bursts into laughter. “I told you not to sneak up on me like that! You gave me a bloody fright!”

Samuel is still beaming, positively amused. “I’m sorry, you were just too lost in your own world looking at—”

“How did you even get in here?!”

“Your window was open, and I climbed my way here.”

Darcy casts him an incredulous look. She scans him from head to foot, notices how his white polo shirt is slightly smeared with dirt. “Samuel,” she says, her arms folding over her chest, “you do know that my room has a door?”

“I know.” He shrugs. “But sneaking into your room this way is much more fun.”

“You are impossibly ridiculous—”

Whatever she is meaning to say next does not get to leave her mouth as he kisses her. When he pulls away, she finds herself breathless. The familiar fragrance of his cologne keeps her reeling.

He smiles. “God, it’s so nice to kiss you again.”

Samuel slowly roams around her room, and she watches him study her entire space with keen interest. He stops to review the titles on her shelves, the paintings on her walls, her too organized workstation, as if he’s trying to collect every single detail about her, soaking it all in. He beams when he spots a couple of her childhood photos on her bedside table—one of them was when she was just seven years old, her face a little grumpy while holding a Bugs Bunny stuffed toy. He does not comment on it; he only turns to her with a huge smile on his face. Her lips quirk into a little frown, and he laughs. She has to admit, it is slightly unnerving seeing Samuel in her old bedroom, looking at her things, browsing through snippets of her life. And yet for some reason, she finds a strange sort of comfort in it. She cannot believe she is even considering the thought of it but much to her chagrin, she likes having him around.

He sits at the foot of her bed, one big grin plastered on his face. “Your room is so… you,” he says finally. 

“Um, thanks.” She walks over to him, and he pulls her close, his hands resting on her waist. “Glad you enjoyed your self-paced tour.”

He laughs. “I did, yeah.” He is absently running his fingers along the curve of her spine. “Uh, Jane?”

“Yeah?” 

Samuel opens his mouth to speak, but quickly closes it. He pauses, hesitates, pauses again. Darcy can tell that he is trying to figure out what to say, or how he is going to say it, but she already has a good idea what this is all about.

All at once, a sharp pang of dread twists at the pit of her stomach. She is preparing herself for the worst. 

“So, I’ve made up my mind,” he says firmly. “I’ve decided to take the job.”

Well. That certainly was not what she was expecting.

Darcy stares at him for a long, hard moment. This conversation was bound to come up, she knew that, and yet she felt so ill-prepared to process what he said—even thoroughly undecided on what to feel—that she clumsily blurts out, “Are you sure?”

“Uh, well, yeah…” 

“Why do I still feel like there’s a _but_ in there somewhere?”

“Okay, see—that’s the thing.” His shoulders slump. He runs a nervous hand through his hair. “I have to go back home first, settle a couple of things,” he explains. “Greta told me that if I’m doing this, I have to do this legit. And I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but I’ll be back soon.”

“Oh. Okay.” For someone who is happy with the news, she sounds a little bit deflated. There is still this unnamed feeling gnawing inside her that she cannot quite put her finger on. It vexes her.

And Samuel could tell just as much.

“Jane,” he says, “I’m coming back, I promise—”

“Samuel, don’t. Don’t promise me anything.”

“Right.” He cups her face in his warm hands, his eyes searching hers. “I thought you’d be happy—”

“Samuel, I… I am happy,” she quickly tells him, trying her best to sound positively reassuring. She forces herself to smile, but then she falters. “It’s just…” She bites her lip, tries to avert her eyes from his. “You’re still leaving. In two days.”

That sneaky smirk of his curls at the corners of his mouth. “Huh. So you mean you’re going to miss me?”

“You don’t have to be so smug about it.”

“You didn’t really answer the question—”

“Of course I’m going to miss you, you idiot.”

He wraps his arms around her, tugs her closer once more, and kisses her again. This time, his kiss is slow, gentle, unhurried. 

“I’ll keep in touch,” he says. “I’ll call you. I’ll even write you letters if you want. Or e-mails, since that's the thing now and you’re always on your laptop all the time—”

“No, I’d prefer your letters.” She lets her fingers graze his bottom lip. “Besides, your handwriting's very lovely.”

“Why, thank you.”

They fall quiet for a while. He tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear; she rests her hands on the back of his neck. She can tell that he is still watching her closely, and sometimes, the way he looks at her makes her heart want to burst out of her chest.

“Jane?”

“Yeah?”

“I can see the gears of your mind at work with that look on your face,” he tells her. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

A small smile passes her face. Weeks ago, she had been determined to push this man away, and now, he knows her more than anyone else. She has never been easy to read, but with Samuel, it’s as if he’s always gathering information about her feelings, something they have learned to do in a short period of time that at this point, they have created a private language, given birth to another universe for them to share. 

And if Darcy were to be honest, she wants to tell him to stay. It is selfish and reckless and she knows it. It takes a monumental effort for her not to beg for it. _Please don’t go. Don’t go back. Just stay here with me._ Because he probably won’t come back. And if he does, he’ll be different. What they have now, they can never have again. In his absence, the pain of her loneliness will only welcome her home. It is her heart’s old sacrament. It will be nothing new when he leaves.

And she’s not sure if she can bear any of it. The slow dissolve of this romance, the bitter taste that she will find in her mouth.

Still, she does not tell him any of this. Instead, she gives him her most earnest smile. “It’s nothing,” she says. “We’re going to be alright.”

* * *

September 18, 1998

Dear Samuel,

I received your letter today, and honestly, I didn’t think you were actually serious with this bloody idea. Besides, it’s only been two weeks and I still feel it’s rather silly we are writing these letters when we’re literally speaking to each other every other night. I can only imagine what our phone bill is going to be like, considering how trunk calls are impossibly expensive. But I digress.

Anyway, I don’t know what else to tell you when I feel like I’ve said everything on the phone, but I will try my best to write it either way. For posterity’s sake, I suppose.

(I’m sorry if I’m treating this as a journal. Perhaps I do suck at writing letters.)

So as I’ve already mentioned, I’ve returned to my flat much to my disdain and I’m slowly easing back to university life. Meanwhile, Mum is traveling to Jerusalem with Lola to meet with some folk from the Israeli government. As it turns out, discovering a long-lost temple and an ancient artifact is one tricky and tedious business, but Lola is helping her sort things out. Mum is bringing her team of researchers on this as well, but I must say, she really does miss working with you and Nathan. I keep hearing her grumbling and complaining about the incompetence of the men in her team, and I can’t say I’m surprised. She really does love having you two around. I know you two insisted that Mum alone should take the credit for the First Temple, but she could not stomach the idea of it. It was hers and Dad’s, surely, but it is just as much as your work, too. So having said that, I hope you won’t be surprised if you see your names in the papers. Or in her books. (This part, I’m afraid I forgot to mention on our call the other day. Surprise?) 

In any case, I cannot express how much I miss you, too. I visit Mum over the weekends, and the house seems eerily empty without you and Nathan, Leticia and Victor. I got so used to hearing your laughter occupying the space of my old bedroom that it’s not the same anymore. So I suppose it is worth saying that I genuinely cannot wait to see you again. I can’t wait to have you back.

Yours,

Jane

* * *

October 25, 1998

Dear Samuel,

As I already mentioned to you in our phone call the other night, I’ve enclosed in this letter a couple of old texts I found on my recent trip to Scotland that chronicles the adventures of your dear friend Henry Avery that might interest you and your brother.

Also, thank you for sending me that photo of Leticia. I can’t believe you and Nathan are planning to make her wear that costume for Halloween! Still, I have to give credit where credit is due: that Dorothy costume looks adorable on her. Perhaps you and Nathan could don a costume, too? Be the Tin Man and the Scarecrow?

Yours,

Jane

  
  


* * *

November 3, 1998

Dear Samuel,

Our calls have been few and far in between as of late, and I completely understand. Life can be very busy and daunting at times. But I’m glad to know that you are doing well, and that your working visa is finally coming along. I cannot imagine how frustrating the entire process has been for you. Rest assured Mum still has not changed her mind on having you on her team. She is patiently waiting for your genius ass to come back here. She’s back from Jerusalem (she made a stopover in Cairo, can you believe her?) and now she’s raring to throw herself back to another dig site in Skellig Michael, where she is expecting your assistance. 

Since you asked about my classes, well… I’m afraid to tell you that they’ve gotten really tedious, not to mention a bit boring, since I have to endure the constant drivel from my professors. (Well, except for my Greek and Classics.) Lots of term papers to write, books to read, paintings to paint. Nothing quite interesting, so I won’t bore you with that. Although I must say, I’m looking forward to graduating from this horrible experience that is university life. Only a couple of months left, so there’s that.

Anyway. Do let us know once you have all your papers ironed out. I miss you heaps, and I truly can’t bear another moment not seeing you.

Yours,

Jane

P.S. I made Mum read one of your letters, to prove my point on the subject of your handwriting. Her verdict: she adores it very much. Very Austen like, she says. Be very flattered.

* * *

January 12, 1999

I haven’t heard from you in months. You haven’t been answering my calls. You never really got around to write back, either. I don’t know if I should be worried. Honestly, I don’t even know if I have the right to be worried. Am I overreacting? Am I thinking too much about this?

I miss you. I still do. I miss you and I hate it now. I hate it so, so much. Because what are we, Samuel? What are we even doing?

* * *

  
  


The air is chilly on this particularly brilliant Saturday afternoon in February when Darcy arrives back at her mother’s house. 

It has been a while since Darcy last paid her mother a visit, and it has been long overdue. Given her last term in the university, she had been so horribly busy that she decided to spend Christmas and New Year’s in her flat, all alone, eating cheese she bought from Borough Market and determined to finish her thesis on Monet. She also took another hacking stint from Lola, so that made her all the more occupied to even think of anything else, to the point that she only went outside to either buy some groceries or if she needed to borrow a book from the library. It was a stupid idea of her to take that job, but she wanted so desperately to bludgeon herself with work.

Suffice to say, her Christmas had been very depressing. Even more so when she learned that Emma would not get to fly back home for the holidays, too.

Still, her mother did not take their absence against them. Emma, most especially. Darcy, she often called to check in on her, anyway. And it did not come as a surprise to Darcy when her mother understood why she could not go home. Or better yet—why she did not _want_ to go home. They both knew it was not just about her school work, nor was it about anything that involved her programming job. They both knew the reason why even without saying it, even without mentioning his name.

Frankly, Darcy would never have come here today if not for her mother who called, telling her there was some urgent business that she needed help with. 

She makes her way upstairs, her feet creaking on the steps. The house is motionless and empty. Spotless and tidy as usual. Everything smelled of roses, which Darcy finds strange. Somewhere down the hall, she hears a faint tune of a jazz song she could not recognize. It is coming from her mother’s study.

She knocks and opens the door. “Mum?”

“Oh, _mija,_ there you are,” her mother says by way of greeting. She rises from behind her desk and welcomes her with a warm hug. She’s in her crisp white polo and slacks, which tend to mean that she is attending to some important business. “Have you already eaten? Did you have trouble getting here?”

“There was a slight delay on the Tube, but it was fine overall.” Darcy smiles. She has to admit, she did miss her mother a bit. Or maybe a lot. “Well then,” she says, “what’s this urgent thing that you needed help with?”

“Yeah, you see, Greta referred me to this very promising hacker in town…”

Darcy blinks. Her heart plummets and goes back up her throat. Perhaps, had she been paying close attention to the room when she entered, she would have noticed that there was someone sitting on the high back armchair across her mother’s desk. Because even with her eyes closed, she could recognize that voice anywhere. She could pick that voice in a crowd or anywhere else in the world and know that it is _him._

“Samuel.”

“Hi Jane,” says Samuel, making his way towards her, closing the distance between them. He is smiling at her, and so is she. “Long time no see. I promised you, didn’t I?”


	11. Epilogue

In the warm morning light, Sam wakes up to an empty side of the bed and a wafting aroma of bacon and pancakes. He pulls himself up on his elbows, groggily checks the clock by the bedside table. Seven in the morning. He rolls out of bed, puts on his sweatpants, and makes his way to the kitchen to find Darcy making breakfast. 

And of course, she is wearing _his_ shirt. Again.

He catches himself smiling. It’s been more than a year since Sam moved to London, and in that year he spent with Darcy, learning from each other and falling into the steady rhythm of their domestic routines, their jobs, their occasional travels—and, of course, their heated arguments, let’s be honest—there are still days that he has to pinch himself to make sure that he is not dreaming this view of her. That this life with her is actually real.

“Morning,” he says, his voice a little hoarse from sleep. “You’re up early. It’s a Saturday.”

“Well,” she says without turning away from the stove, “I wouldn’t be up early if I wasn’t famished. Someone kept me up last night.”

Sam laughs. “That’s because I missed you so much.” He walks his way towards her, wraps his arms around her waist, presses a kiss on the nape of her neck. “You look beautiful.”

“And you’re horny.” Darcy turns and kisses him on the cheek. She puts the bacon from the frying pan and onto the plates already stacked with pancakes. There are also scrambled eggs on the side. “If you’re trying to seduce me back into bed, can we at least eat first?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Sam takes the plates as Darcy pours a fresh cup of coffee for him, tea for her. Over their breakfast table, they start talking about all sorts of things, hopping from one subject to the next as they always do: from Darcy’s upcoming exhibit to Sam’s discovery in Skellig Michael, down to their rent and bills and grocery lists. They hardly get to share mornings like this together considering their varying schedules, so Sam makes the most out of the days when he can spend time with her. 

“Oh, by the way,” says Darcy, mouth still partly full of pancakes, “someone called last night, I forgot to tell you.” She swallows, takes a sip of her tea. “Does the name Rafe Adler ring a bell to you by any chance?”

“Isn’t that the filthy rich businessman who was called a spoiled brat on live television the other day?” he asks between chews.

“Yes, the very same.”

“Okay.” He looks up at her, suddenly puzzled. “Wait, Rafe Adler called?”

“Uh-huh. He was actually looking for you and left a message, and I quote, he’s ‘very much keen to meet with you about something important.’”

Sam raises a dubious brow. “What? What does a guy like him want from me? And how did he even know our number?”

“Well, glad you asked.” She smiles. “I actually looked him up and—”

“You’re kidding me. You _looked_ him up?” he repeats. Sometimes, he forgets that his girlfriend is a ruthless hacker and this conversation is a nice little reminder of that. 

“Of course. Got to make sure to look after my man.”

“God, I love you.”

“I know.” She is grinning, and he badly wants to reach across the table and kiss her now if only he did not have a piece of bacon between his teeth. “Anyway,” she continues, “he has a couple of contacts from Oxford, so I have a feeling he got your number from either my Mum’s department directory or the guys you worked with on that stint in Scotland.”

“Right, right.” He slices his pancakes with his fork, takes two big bites. “I still can’t see why he would want anything from me.”

“Well, I heard he’s quite an art enthusiast,” explains Darcy. “Perhaps he has a job for you or something?” 

“Maybe.”

“I think you should meet up with him, just see what he has to say.” 

“You think so?”

Darcy nods agreeably. “Well, if he screws you over, I’ll fuck up his bank accounts.”

“Look at you, little thief.” Sam cracks a hearty laugh. “I think I like to see more of you stealing from the rich than me meeting this rich snob.”

“Whatever. Anyway, it’s just a meeting, Samuel.” Darcy shrugs, smiles. “Besides, what’s the worst thing that could happen?”

Sam considers her for a long moment. “Yeah. Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”


End file.
